


no matter the world

by piratesails



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - The Enchanted Forest (Once Upon a Time), Best Friends, Established Relationship, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Forbidden Romance, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I just love writing them as partners and colleagues etc etc, I refuse to write anything that isn't pining, Lieutenant Killian Jones/Princess Emma Swan, Mutual Pining, Pirate Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Princess Emma Swan, Tropes, accidental marriages lead to real feelings duh, acquaintances to reality tv trash watching friends to lovers, alternatively titled: scenes from imaginary verses, being stranded together is a top tier trope, just a bunch of romcom scenarios really, killian is a cat person and emma is a killian person, killian jones is a romantic idiot in every version, librarian!killian, panic and pining, reluctant monster hunter partnerships are the best kinds of partnerships, something like bonnie and clyde, star crossed lovers because I hate myself, superstitious!killian isn't canon but it should be, they're idiots in love in every scenario, this collection will have two (2) whole separate bed sharing fics, threw in an established relationship or two for the bants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 30,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27631364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piratesails/pseuds/piratesails
Summary: A series of unrelated AU one-shots and drabbles prompted on tumblr.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 62
Kudos: 160





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> over the course of my time in fandom, I've written a ton of baby bit one-shots and I just want everything I've ever written for these two idiots in love to exist in one place, and thus, this. several years late but brought about by a random desperate need to be organized. enjoy!
> 
> 1\. librarian/avid reader  
> (c. 2015)

The first time he sees her, she’s hunched over a recently returned copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ , reading glasses perfectly perched atop the bridge of her nose and golden hair pulled back in a messy bun.

He doesn’t speak to her, doesn’t offer any book suggestions like he does for the others, he merely steals glances at the way she turns each page so delicately like it’s the most precious thing she’s ever held.

-/-

The second time he finds her is around two weeks later, she’s jammed herself in a corner of the library, between two shelves that hold historical memoirs that are hardly ever touched. He softly asks her if he can help her in any way, and when she looks up to shake her head no, he feels absolutely captured by her too green eyes.

He doesn’t want to leave her presence, he wishes he could stay there with her and listen to her read aloud to him. But, perhaps that’s overstepping his boundaries. After all, she is a complete stranger.

-/-

After what must be her sixth visit, he quickly realises that she never actually borrows a book, never takes one out of the building. She comes in, reads by herself for a few hours, if he’s lucky, she makes small talk with him, and then promptly takes her leave. He’s pretty sure she’s never actually finished a book, either. It makes him terribly curious and far more intrigued by her than he should be.

-/-

“You’d think I like it because we share a name, but she’s my least favourite character.”

It’s a completely off handed comment spilled from her lips as she picks up an Austen novel from his library cart and looks it over. He’s not sure if she’s thinking aloud or if it was meant for him, so he offers her a polite smile. But that’s how he finds out her name.

(Emma.)

(He repeats it in his head over and over, liking how it suits her.)

( _God_ , he likes her, doesn’t he?)

-/-

She has full length conversations with him some days, and he finds himself cherishing those moments. He brings her coffee when she mentions she stayed up late to work on a paper the night before — he thinks she went back to school, or is perhaps getting a PhD — and it feels awfully like a date as he sits next to her with his own beverage. She grins at him and his heart hammers wildly in his chest.

-/-

“Why do you never finish the books you read?” he asks, leaning on a wooden book case that he should probably ask the janitor to dust off properly.

“I don’t know,” she hums while browsing the shelves. “For one, I don’t really have the time. And I guess I’ve always liked the beginnings more than the endings, anyway. It’s never as good at the end as it is at the start.”

He’s sure there’s a story behind that, but he doesn’t ask her any more questions.

-/-

It becomes a routine. A routine that he adores. She walks into the library, just about daily, around half an hour after they open and he has coffee waiting for her at his table. He recommends a new book for her every day, placing it next to her beverage, starting off with _The Princess Bride_ because surely she already knows how that one ends.

She beams up at him from her place, cross legged on the carpeted floor, when he comes to greet her and calls him _a big softie_ for his choice of recommendation. And he wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like to kiss her.

-/-

He starts sticking post-it notes on the last page of each book he leaves for her, summarising the endings of the novels.

(“Swan, the endings are the best parts. I refuse to let you put down a great piece of literature without knowing what happens.”

“You’re such a nerd.”)

-/-

“Who’s that blonde girl that comes in here so often?” Belle asks him one day. Really, his colleague was bound to notice eventually.

“Hm? Oh, that’s Emma,” he says nonchalantly, trying his best not to let his undecided emotions for her surface into the conversation.

“You like her, don’t you?”

He scoffs, “Why on earth would you say that?”

“I know you, Killian, and I can tell you have feelings for her.”

“We just share common interests, that’s all.”

“Sure,” she hums knowingly but drops the subject, and he’s never been more thankful for her habit of not prying.

-/-

“How did you end up becoming a librarian?” Emma asks as she flips through _The_ _Catcher in the Rye_.

“Well, it started off as a temporary job in between working as a guest English lecturer at a university, but after a while it just kind of stuck. It makes sense because I’ve always felt at home around books. Not to mention, it became rather difficult managing three jobs.”

“ _Three_ jobs?”

“We all know being this devilishly handsome all the time is a job in its own, love.”

She laughs and shoves his shoulder and he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. He likes this easy banter between them, this flow of conversation that comes so naturally that it causes him to forget that he hasn’t know her for his entire life.

-/-

When he presents her with a copy of _Peter Pan_ , she tenses, never lifting her eyes from the cover as she holds it with an iron grip.

She doesn’t read it. She doesn’t even drink her coffee. She sits in her usual spot and thumbs at the edges of the cover.

When he crouches beside her a while after tending to the other readers, he asks her if she’s okay.

“I was a foster kid,” she says barely above a whisper, refusing to make eye contact with him. “Never stayed in one house for too long, they’d always send me back.” She sighs, “I’ve always been a lost girl.”

And she sounds so broken, like someone who has been let down far too many times in her life, and now he understands why she dislikes the endings, why she would rather have the joy of beginning something, the flicker of hope of something good.

So he lets her rest her head on his shoulder, and tucks her under his arm for the rest of her visit, thankful that Belle will understand his abrupt break from work. He tells her he’s sorry for reminding her of her hard times and vows to himself to never let her go.

-/-

They share stories of their pasts, of ex-lovers and petty crimes, of losses and heartache, of hobbies and their love for literature, and he feels an odd connection to her that he’s certain he’s never had with anyone else.

He believes she feels something for him, just by the way she opens up to him, the way her gaze softens ever so slightly when he speaks. He wants her to feel something for him because he sure as hell feels _everything_ for her.

He’s so screwed.

-/-

And really, asking her out should not be this hard. After all, he has known her for months. But he’s so scared she’ll say no, or worse, push him away.

And they’re _friends_ , and from what he gathers, she doesn’t have too many of those. So, what if he ruins it? Not for him, but for her?

He watches her intently read Fitzgerald from his desk and feels a strong jolt of adoration that he’s been painfully aware of for the past few weeks. She has nestled herself in among the stacks of books and the heavy smell of wood and old paper, and he’s sure it’s never felt more like home to him.

-/-

Her visits become less frequent, and soon enough he doesn’t see her for three weeks because she’s having finals. And he wants her to succeed and receive her degree in law more than anything else in the world, but -

But he misses her.

Quite terribly.

(Belle calls him a lovesick puppy.)

(He silently agrees.)

So, when he sees her after her semester is finally over, he’s pretty sure the goofy smile plastered on his face makes him look like an idiot.

She ends up spending more time in the library than before because according to her, it’s not like she has anywhere else to be, really.

(“You can admit it, Swan, you just like being around my stunning self.”

“Please, I’m only in this friendship for the free coffee.”

“Whatever floats your boat, love.”

He winks at her and it takes everything in him not to kiss her right then when a shade of red overtakes her cheeks.)

-/-

He decides he’s had enough of this little charade, and in a moment of insane bravery, he grabs a copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ and scribbles a note before he can talk himself out of it.

(He’s never been so cowardly, never been so flustered when it comes to approaching a woman, and he realises how head over heels he is for her, how serious he is about her, how much he wants her to _stay_.)

He all but shoves it into the first page of the book and goes about his job, not wanting to be around if she chooses to ignore the note and reject him.

-/-

_The first time I saw you, you were reading this book. I didn’t know then that you’d become such a big part of my life. But you must know, surely you must know, that I admire you. Will you do me the great honour of going out with me?_

_— Killian_

-/-

“Killian?”

He’s rearranging the novels in the Romance section, his back to her, and he shuts his eyes hard and _God_ , why does he feel like such a _stupid_ teenage boy with a _stupid_ little crush?

When he turns around with a witty remark on his tongue to brush off the possible rejection, she pushes him into the bookcase and crashes her lips into his. His arms automatically circle her waist as he responds to her kiss. And, _she’s actually kissing him_. And the shelves are uncomfortably digging into his back but he doesn’t care about anything but her hands fisting into his hair and the feel of her soft lips on his.

When they part, she’s smiling sheepishly at him.

“Nice touch with the Austen quote,” she whispers.

“Shall I take that as a yes?”

“Just shut up and kiss me.”

“As you wish.”

-/-

And months later, when she moves in with him, she tells him that she’s never been too keen on endings, but she’s confident that theirs will be a happy one.  
  
He can’t help but kiss her in overwhelming agreement.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2\. partners in crime au  
> (c. 2015)

“Well, that went well,” Killian says with a large grin on his face as he slips his black jacket off and throws it onto the couch of their barely lit apartment, walking into the bedroom.

“ _Well_? Are you serious? You almost shot my fucking head off!”

“Darling,” he starts sweetly, walking back up to her and placing a chaste kiss on her lips, “ _Almost_ being the key word.”

Emma glares at him. He’s an asshole; he’s a rash, egotistic, smug, too-good-looking-for-his-own-good, asshole.

“I could have died, Jones,” she spits out at him.

“Now, love, you know I wouldn’t let that happen,” he winks at her and she finds her resolve weakening ever so slightly. “Anyway, we got what we wanted, didn’t we?”

He moves away from her and reaches for the bag she’s still holding on to, pulling it into his hands to inspect the necklaces inside. The heist had been easy enough, in and out before the cops showed up, nothing they couldn’t handle. In fact, it was basically child’s play compared to the operations they’d carried out before.

Oh, yes, except for the part where he’d almost rammed a bullet through her skull. He’d blamed the dark of the alleyway, swearing he saw a shadow behind her. Turns out, it was a stray cat. Really, for one of the best robbers in the country, Killian Jones is a fucking idiot.

She rolls her eyes at him as he begins counting the necklaces, opting to peel off her gloves and slip out of her boots and foregoing the grudge she was forming against him. She moves to the dresser, flicking on the small lamp beside it in order to remove the little makeup she has on.

They’d started off in this partnership as a means to an end; the end, of course, was getting filthy rich. Slowly, they’d made their way to be the highest regarded thieves in the country, often working as the middle men for underground con men – they did the dirty work, but received payment accordingly. Not only had they climbed the social ladder in their line of work, but the dynamic between them had also shifted from professional to sexual to romantic over the past few years. And, even though she secretly feared for his safety every time they went to complete a job, she couldn’t deny that seeing him in his professional setting was a definite turn on. Not to mention the tight fitting black shirts he wore for the jobs, the ones that always brought out his terribly blue eyes.

“All 27 accounted for. Mills better be willing to pay us double for getting this done so quickly,” Killian hums, getting up to wrap his arms around her waist, his chest pressing into her back as he places his chin on her shoulder.

“27? I thought we only had to get 26?” She furrows her brow as she catches his gaze in the reflection of the mirror.

He places a kiss on the underside of her jaw and moves his hand to take out a necklace from his back pocket. He moves back and gently positions it around her neck, clasping it into place. She thumbs the delicate pendant; a small gold swan.

“Didn’t think I’d bring you back something shiny?” He moves to kiss her cheek and whispers, “A golden swan for my golden Swan.”

“Oh my God, that was so cheesy,” she says breathlessly as she swiftly turns around and captures him in a searing kiss.

He hauls her closer to him and moves them back to the bed, never breaking contact from her mouth as he bites harshly on her lower lip. And, as exhilarating as each heist is, she’s fucking positive that nothing beats the adrenaline of what comes after it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3\. “our first date is a picnic on a beach under the stars? have you swallowed a romance novel? do I need to call a doctor?”  
> (c. 2016)

They’ve never exactly done things traditionally. She’d met him when she’d mistaken him for someone else and punched him in the face. And even with the purplish bruise and the arrogant smirk on his lips, they’d found themselves falling into a sort-of-acquaintances with benefits situation. In a handful of months though, the strictly late night visits and bare minimum of conversation turned to Killian standing in her kitchen shirtless in the morning as he cooked her breakfast, punctuating his morning wishes with a kiss to her lips.

That’s about the extent of romance that Emma can stomach. And that’s probably why they’d never actually labelled whatever it is they were doing - he’d gone from someone she slept with to a close friend to a man who’d text her every moment he could and come over for regular movie nights only to make out with her on her couch. She wouldn’t exactly call him her boyfriend if anyone asked.

She liked being around him and he with her. She figures it works because they’re on the same page most of the time. Killian doesn’t believe in grand gestures or extreme declarations of love. They’ve both been rather bruised and battered by that in their pasts, and they’ve both got enough walls to scare anyone off.

That’s exactly why it’s takes her aback when on a lazy Saturday afternoon, he mumbles into the space between her neck and shoulder, “Swan, would you go out with me?”

She tries not to jolt back, what with his head resting on her and all, but it’s not something she manages to accomplish. “What?”

“It occurred to me a few days ago that we’ve never truly been out on a proper date,” he says, sifting his fingers through his hair in a fidgeting motion.

“We’ve been out plenty of times,” she argues.

“We haven’t, not alone and not officially.” She watches him for a few beats and he does the same, until he smiles a bit sadly and looks away, “Nevermind, it was just a thought and-”

“You’re serious?” She interrupts, “You really wanna go out on a date?”

“Aye.”

“Then yeah, okay.”

It’s not something she’s privy to; the idea of wearing a dress and going out for a fancy dinner. But this is Killian, and she tells herself that he’ll probably take her out to the shooting range or something. That, and the fact that his answering grin is near blinding, lets her know that’s she’s made the right choice.

-/-

By Friday night, she’s managed to calm most of her nerves. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but doing something like this only reminds her of how real this thing between her and Killian is.

(How real her feelings are, despite her never directly voicing them to him.)

(Or herself, but that’s besides the point.)

He shows up at her door at 8 sharp, just like he’d said he would, with his casual attire matching her own. That helps, too, lets her thoughts settle on the fact that this is normal and definitely not something she should be freaking out about.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” She says about ten minutes into the drive, leaning back into the seat of his Jeep. It’s a secondhand one, but one Killian treats with the utmost care - she’d know, he’s chastised her for putting her feet up on the dashboard one too many times.

“It’s a surprise, darling.” She scrunches up her nose at that. And as if he knows what she’s doing without even glancing at her, he chuckles, “Trust me, Swan.”

It takes them about fifteen more minutes, and then he’s pulling up the car and rushing out to open her door like the gentleman he is. Once she’s got her feet on the ground, he wraps his arms around her and kisses her soundly, tangling his fingers into the ends of her hair. “What was that for?” She mumbles into the few inches between them once he pulls back.

His lips tilt up in a half smile, “Just because.”

It’s so fucking cheesy that she has to push him back with a grin. He mirrors it as he makes his way to the trunk. She registers the place then, it’s the small beach he’s always talked about but she’d never had a chance to visit. It’s a secluded thing, hidden between a rocky terrain and a private chalet. He’d told her once that he knew the owner, which is how he’d found the place.

She sees him in the bare light, carrying a basket as he makes his way into the sand, shouting for her to follow.

And then she _really_ registers the place and its purpose and if she said he was being cheesy before then this is a whole other level. It takes her until he’s done laying down the blanket and pulling out wrapped up sandwiches from the basket to find her voice. “Is this for real?”

He turns abruptly to face her, neck craning to catch her eyes from where he’s kneeling in the sand. “Pardon, love?”

“Our first date is a picnic on a beach under the stars? Have you swallowed a romance novel? Do I need to call a doctor?” A strangled kind of laugh escapes her, one that’s bordering on nervousness and unease. Because this is definitely not something she thought would happen.

His face falls and she immediately feels like the biggest jerk in her whole 10 mile radius.

She squeezes her eyes shut and attempts to amend the statement. “No, sorry, it’s just-,” she looks at him and he seems to be folding into himself, putting all his walls back up, “we don’t really do stuff like this. I didn’t think _you_ would do stuff like this. I guess it just caught me a little off guard.”

He gets to his feet and presses down at the corner of the picnic blanket with the toe of his combat boot, not looking at her. “I suppose I should have checked with you first. I only assumed you’d enjoy it because you like the ocean.”

“Yeah, I do, but I was expecting something a bit less…,” she struggles to voice her thoughts, not wanting to hurt him. Even though it looks like she’s already accomplished that.

“Romantic?” He supplies, a bit weakly if she’s being honest. And then he lets out a short laugh that she can only identify as self depreciating. “Believe it or not, Emma, I’ve quite an inclination towards all that. Roses and dress up dates and sending gifts for no reason. I just haven’t been that man in a while, that is, until I met you.

“You reminded me of what it feels like to _feel_ something with my walls down. I gather now that I may not have done the same for you.”

Before she realises it, she’s already in front of him, cradling his face in her hands. It’s impulsive, and that’s why it hits her. He _has_ done that for her since the moment he’s met her, time and time again, just never as obviously as this. “Hey,” she says softly, “you have, I don’t know how to let myself believe it or something, but you’ve made me the best version of myself.”

“You don’t have to say that to make me feel better, Swan.”

“I’m serious, Killian,” she moves a little closer and she sighs when his hands find her waist. “I’m not used to this.”

“Neither am I,” he swallows, “but I’d like to be. And I’d like it to be with you. If that would be alright.”

She shakes her head with a smile - him and his ridiculous chivalry, she doesn’t know how she didn’t see the kind of man buried underneath before. “Yeah, that’d be alright,” she whispers right before pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “Now, your sandwiches are getting cold and these stars aren’t gonna watch themselves.”

She goes to pull away from him but he tightens his hold on her and keeps her in place. “Thank you.”

If she could melt into the man, she probably would. She leans in to kiss his cheek, lips lingering against his stubble for a few seconds as she presses her nose into his skin. And she thinks maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea if she told everyone he was her boyfriend, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4\. dialogue prompt: “I want you and I know you want me too.” + “I can’t watch you with someone else. It’s tearing me apart.”  
> (c. 2016)

It’s a messed up game, to say the least, but one they find themselves playing constantly. Technically, they’re not supposed to have any contact between them. Technically, they’re not even supposed to have ever met. Technically-

Technically, technicalities don’t really seem to matter when he’s got her pressed up against the cold brick of the castle wall, his teeth nipping at her jaw.

It’s forbidden, a princess of such high status as hers to even be seen near a man - a _pirate_ \- who’s known across the kingdoms for his hatred against the crown. He’s stolen from many castles, disappearing straight into the night and to the end of the horizons before anyone can even see his shadow.

That’s how they’d met; she’d literally ran into him as he’d turned a corner in what he thought was a stealthy move in the middle of the night. He’d been on the way to the throne room, but after she’d caught him, threatened to have him beheaded for trespassing, he’d placed a kiss on the back of her hand and scaled out the castle through the side window. Her lady's maid had warned her about him the next day, out of sheer coincidence, telling her that there was word among the people that he’d docked in Misthaven a night ago. She hadn’t known about him or his reputation till then, and after, she couldn’t seem to match the man she’d had a brief encounter with to the man whose stories littered the lands.

Captain Killian Jones, scourge of the seven seas.

Captain Killian Jones, the man who’d shown up at the ball the week after in royal attire (most likely stolen) and winked at her as he’d introduced himself as Prince Charles.

She should have told someone on the first day, should have mentioned it to the head of the guards at the ball, should have pointed him out to her lady mother. But, something compelled her to hold her tongue. Something about the fact that his blue eyes glinted every time they met with hers, and how she couldn’t quite get the foreign lilt of his voice out of her mind.

And now, it’s been close to four months of secret meetings and sneaking around. Four months of heated kisses and wandering hands, all of which had began the night of that ball, when he’d backed her into a corner in the gardens with his flirtations, and she couldn’t handle the distance between them, eliminating it at once with a pull of his collar.

If her mother ever found out, well, it wouldn’t end well for either of them.

“Killian,” she pants out as his lips trail down her neck, “we need to stop doing this.”

“Princess, you shouldn’t deny yourself the simple desires that you crave,” he mumbles, stubble scratching against her skin.

She tugs at his hair none too pleasantly, and he grunts as he jolts up to face her. “I’m serious,” she huffs, taking in his dark eyes and the way his tongue darts out to lick his lips.

He moves closer, lips a bare breath from hers. “I want you,” he says roughly and she sucks in a sharp breath at the desire that courses through her, “and I know you want me, too.”

“So sure of yourself, huh?” She knows she’s tempting him by poking at his ego, but it’s something he’s undoubtedly used to by now. Their banter only serves to make all of this that much more interesting, more _appealing_. She pushes him, and he pushes back.

He doesn’t reply, only crashes his lips onto hers to muffle a moan. Her fingers work their way through his hair, while his skim the sides of her ballgown, toying with the laces teasingly.

She breaks the kiss with an exhale, her other hand thumbing at the chain of the necklace he always wears.

“I’ve let this go on for too long,” she tries to reason once more, “I can’t keep seeing you like this, someone’s going to find out.”

He doesn’t say anything, and she fixes her eyes on the hollow of his neck. “Why are you that eager to stop seeing me all of a sudden?”

“All these balls, they’re so that I can find a husband. How can that ever happen when in between all those princes with stiff backs, all I see is you smirking at me?” She tries to sound exasperated, but it comes out softer than that. This may have started out as a way to please her urges but somewhere in the last sixteen weeks, she’s come to feel and hope for more. It’s a death wish, she knows. Especially because there’s no chance in hells that he’d be interested in getting entangled with a royal. Not with the disservice his king had done to him, not with the amount of hardship that every man and woman with any kind of power had enforced onto him.

He stays silent once again, and then he’s stepping even closer, pressing his nose into her neck. “Emma,” he rasps, “can you keep a secret?”

She nods, eyebrows furrowed slightly, “Yes.”

“You dance with those princes, their bodies so close to yours, and it drives me mad. I can’t watch you with someone else, it’s tearing me apart.”

His confession knocks the air out of her lungs and if it weren’t for his strong arms around her waist and the wall supporting her back, her knees would have definitely given way.

“What-”

He moves back abruptly, “I know this was never meant to be more than what it is, but I care for you, love. And I can’t bloody well seem to stop.”

She opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out, unable to form any coherent thought. She just wants to kiss him, but she knows that he’s stocked up the courage to have this conversation right now and she’d rather not distract him from it.

“Run away with me,” he fixes her with a stare that’s half determined and half pleading.

“You know I can’t,” she manages out. “No matter how much I want to.”

“I know.” Even through his fallen expression, there’s a smile that graces his face at her words. “Perhaps we weren’t meant to be in this life, my love,” he swipes his thumb against her cheekbone, the cold metal of his ring pleasing against her skin.

Her hand moves to cover his as she leans into his touch.

“I should go,” he whispers. And she wants to kiss him like she always does before he sneaks out of her bedchamber, but she’s too afraid that this time it’ll taste too much like goodbye.

She tightens her hold on his hand when he moves back, and he freezes in place. “See you tomorrow night?” Emma chances weakly, words unsure.

He watches her for a few beats until he smirks, his arrogance back in full force. “See,” he captures her lips in a chaste kiss, nibbling at her bottom lip before he releases it, “I told you you wanted me.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5\. dialogue prompt: “We have to pretend to be married.”  
> (c. 2017)

“We have to pretend to be married.”

Killian almost chokes on his coffee, and she thinks maybe she should have picked another time to mention this to him. Maybe more strategically. And not in the middle of their favourite diner, during the breakfast rush, no less. “Pardon?”

“Actually, marriage would mean we’d have to have pictures of some kind of wedding and knowing Granny, she’d want to see the certificate, too.” Emma groans. “Engaged,” she nods to herself, and then to Killian, “we have to pretend to be engaged.”

Killian pushes his coffee mug away from him, and shakes his head as if coming out of a daze. “Apologies, Swan, but I don’t follow.”

Emma sighs. “My brother’s getting married.”

“And apparently so are we?” he interrupts with a quirk of his brow.

“No. Well. Look, David is getting married and I have to go back to my hometown for the wedding. Which means every single person will realize how much of a loner and shit at life I am and I can take it, but my mom doesn’t need that from her neighbours and her colleagues and, like, the fucking grocery store cashier.” Emma inhales heavily, and squeezes her eyes shut. Honestly, small towns and their stupid judgmental gossip mills. “So, would you pretend to be my fiance?”

When she opens her eyes, Killian’s blinking at her. The whole concept is ridiculous, and it’s just for that reason that she think it might work. Besides, when she came up with the plan at three in the morning, a very large part of her brain told her that letting Killian wrap an arm around her waist and curl his hand around hers wouldn’t be the worst thing. (It would probably be one of the best, if she lets that small voice in the back of her head be heard.)

“You are going to your brother’s wedding,” Killian says slowly.

“Yes.”

“I am to be your date.”

“Yes.”

“And not just any date. A fiance. _Your_ fiance.”

“Yes.”

He continues to stare at her with an expression she can’t read. She fidgets with the zipper of her jacket before reaching up and curling her hair around her ears.

“Is it really necessary for you to go through such a charade?” he asks, finally breaking the tense silence.

And okay, she knew there was fifty percent chance he’d say no. They were best friends, but that didn’t mean he would willingly jump into the mouth of a snapping crocodile for her. But she’ll be lying if she says she isn’t a little disappointed. At the prospect of not getting to act like he’s actually hers, or him not wanting to see her that way, she isn’t sure.

He’s still waiting on her answer, so she supplies him with a weak nod.

“And when is this wedding?”

“In three weeks.”

“How long will it be?”

“A week, maybe two, if David wants me to come early and help out.” She sighs, and resigns herself to his rejection, tries not to take it too personally. It’s not like she’s told him flat out that she has feelings for him and he’s shot her down. But, still.

Killian keeps his expression pointedly neutral, and reaches for a napkin. He lays it out in front of him and maneuvers a pen out of the pocket of his jeans. He clicks it open and begins writing in his stupidly perfect cursive.

“What are you doing?” she chances, after he’s already reached halfway to the bottom of his napkin.

“I’m writing you a list of things I will do as your fake fiance, should you need me to do them.” He says it so casually, that she can only assume he’s making fun of her.

“Killian, I was being serious about this.”

He looks up at her, pen poised over the napkin. “As am I.” It takes everything in her not to jump over the table and pull him into a crushing hug when she hears no lie in his words. Instead, she nods, and picks up her mug of coffee while he goes back to his list. She watches as strands of his hair fall into his eyes, and as he pauses every few moments to think before jotting down more points, ever so often smiling to himself. Some days she tries to talk herself out of loving Killian Jones, but in moments like these she finds that that isn’t exactly _possible_.

It takes him a few minutes, but eventually he slides his napkin to her side of the table and watches her expectedly as she picks it up.

  * _Regale the story of our first meeting and of how I proposed to you  
_
  * _Constantly provide you with drinks to make the experience easier  
_
  * _Alternatively: propose a drinking game based on your relatives  
_
  * _Brag about your achievements  
_
  * _Start a fight with an old boyfriend who decides he wants you back (can be physical, if need be)  
_
  * _Steal the mic at the wedding to tell everyone how much I adore you  
_
  * _Pretend to be really drunk so you can leave early  
_
  * _Let you eat my slice of the cake  
_



_More to be decided upon further request from the future (pretend) Mrs. Swan-Jones_

There’s a tightness in Emma’s throat as she re-reads it once (okay, maybe twice) more, which is why she prides herself in how even her voice comes out when she says, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ah, but you want to marry me anyway.” He gives her a full grin this time, the one that reaches his eyes and brings his dimples to life. She has to snap herself out of staring, has to remind herself that even if there’s a lining of truth to his words, that this will all be pretend.

Two weeks. She can do two weeks of pretending to be in a long term relationship with a guy she’s head over heels about, one who doesn’t share her feelings. How hard could it be?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6\. dialogue prompt: "You are the best thing that's ever happened to me."  
> (c. 2017)

Killian tightens his grip on his gun, knowing full well they won’t be able to hide from the beast any longer. He did guess that by taking the job to hunt down the realm’s most dangerous hybrid dragon, he’d be putting his life at the most peril that it’s ever been in. 

He turns his head to look at Emma, her mouth set in a thin line. What he did not guess was that he’d actually _want_ to live, for once. 

It’s easy to be a monster hunter when you’ve got nothing to lose besides yourself. That’s why their profession is full of loners with pasts much like his own. What isn’t easy is taking on the most dangerous job of your career and reluctantly working with an assigned partner, only to find yourself wanting nothing more than to have someone worth fighting for. Never in his life has he wished harder than now that he was born in another time, another life, one with Emma Swan by his side through all of it. 

He swallows heavily. These could be his final moments.

“Perhaps this is not the time,” Killian says in between pants, catching her attention, “but you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Emma blinks at him, and for a brief second he wonders if she’s blinking away some sort of emotion. “Is that really the pep talk you’re going with? You’re usually better at these.”

She’s deflecting, and it eases something in his chest when she quirks one corner of her mouth up despite her shining eyes. 

“Forgive me, I’ve a tendency to get emotional when I’m at death’s door,” he says only half joking. 

She shakes her head. “You’ve got a lot of life left to live, Jones, don’t count this as your best moment.”

Killian makes sure his dagger is still securely clipped to his belt when he hears a heavy roar that shakes the ground beneath them. He looks to Emma, her back pressed to the wall opposite from him. She’s close enough that he can see the littering of scratches she’s acquired from their weeks of trailing and chasing this beast. 

“Starting to believe in happy endings, are you?” he grunts, trying to maintain their banter so the fear doesn’t overcome the both of them. 

“Guess you’ve rubbed off on me. You ready?” she adds after a second of just looking at him. 

He nods, feels her slip her hand in his and squeeze once before she slips out and yells to catch the attention of the monster. It’s all the courage he needs to follow after her.

-/-

When he comes to, it’s with a heavy pounding in his head and a numbness in his left shoulder. 

“Killian?” It takes him a moment to place Emma’s frantic voice, and then he groans in recognition. “Killian, God,” her voice comes out in a relieved rush and he feels her fingers on his cheek. 

He manages to open his eyes in time to see Emma lean in close. Then her lips are on his in a soft kiss that he wishes would never end. All the hurt in him dissipates as he tangles his hand in her hair to keep her close, focusing only on the way her mouth moves against his. 

When she pulls back she doesn’t get far with him holding her. He’s on the ground, he realizes, and Emma’s on her knees. She’s got a gash that runs down the side of her neck but her mouth is pulled up in a wide smile. 

“I told myself if we made it out alive, I’d kiss you.”

“Did we?”

“Yes, you idiot.”

“Forgive me, love. With a kiss like that, a man can only assume he’s made it to heaven,” he murmurs, still toying with her hair. And then it hits him. “You did it, Swan.”

“We did it.” She looks to her left and he follows her gaze to see the fallen dragon, its skin sizzling in deterioration. She turns back to him, “Even if you did get knocked out and didn’t see it happen,” she teases. 

“Not a very good move for a partner,” he scrunches his nose up, hating himself for leaving her to finish the battle alone. 

Emma shakes her head, and pulls him up by his arms so he’s sitting. She brushes his hair away from his eyes. “I wouldn’t trade my partner for the world,” she whispers. 

His chest swells with happiness and hope – two things he’s been devoid of for a very, very, long time. “I believe we share that sentiment.” 

She smiles enough that her dimples peek out. It’s a rare thing to see on her, especially considering the field of work they’re in. She wraps her arms around him and embraces him tightly, her nose pressed into his neck. He holds on as hard as he can without hurting himself further, lips finding the crown of her head. 

“For the record, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, too,” she mumbles into his skin. 

He doesn’t know where he’ll go from here, but he knows that wherever he does, he wants to go there with her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7\. dialogue prompt: “I’d die for you. Of course, I’d haunt you in the afterlife but really, it’s the thought that counts.”  
> (c. 2016)

Emma sighs loudly and pushes herself further back into the car seat. It’s such an Emma move that he has to chuckle, has to keep from chuckling even louder when she sends a glare his way.

“I’m glad you find this so funny.”

“Come on, Swan, it’s not half bad,” he rests the back of his head against the window so he can still face her.

“Of course you’d say that, you’re the one that got us into this mess in the first place,” she pushes a few strands of hair out of her face, huffing at the steering wheel. It technically isn’t his fault that her car stopped working practically in the middle of nowhere while they were on their way back to Storybrooke from Ruby’s housewarming in Boston. But he’s not about to insult her barely functioning VW Bug, especially when she’s already angry at him for suggesting they take a shortcut.

“We’ll be out of here in no time, love, you’ve already called Dave. And heaven knows he’ll be more than eager to rescue you from this predicament like the Prince Charming he is.”

Emma snorts at the nickname, shoulders lowering a little. He doesn’t mind being here, likes it, in fact. Because this way he gets to spend more time alone with Emma before they get back home. Sure, he sees her nearly every day but it’s a different thing when you’re crowded in between tens of people who have a keen interest in poking into your lives. Small towns and their grapevines, and all that.

(And it’s true that he hates the rumours that surface about him and his best friend ever so often, like they’re all still in high school. But it’s also true that if someone were to flat out ask him if he had feelings for Emma, he isn’t too sure he’d be willing to deny it.)

“At least the radio works,” she mutters, fingers fiddling with the dial to catch a station that’s anything but a news channel. She stops on a instumental station, keeping the volume low in enough that it fills in the silence without being overwhelming. Not that the silence between him and Emma is ever uncomfortable that it needs to be filled.

“Even if the heat doesn’t?” He raises an eyebrow. These digs at her car will surely land him face down in the parking lot of Granny’s one day, he’s certain. But there’s something to be said about the way Emma crosses her arms across her chest and fixes him with a look.

“I’m sorry, do _you_ have a car that you could’ve used to drive us to Boston in?”

He raises his arms in surrender, smirk still plastered on his face. It won’t be too long before the cold starts seeping in through the glass, and Killian wonders if Emma’s got a jacket stored for herself in the backseat. He also wonders if those few granola bars he’d stashed in her glove compartment are still there. Knowing her, she probably hasn’t touched them. Probably forgot they were there, in fact.

She fiddles with the keys in the ignition, says, “This is how those slasher movies start y’know.” He cranes his neck to survey the expanse of the field on his left and right, the long road in front of them stretching for miles.

“Aye, I’m sure the would-be-perpetrator is hiding right in between those 2 inches of grass,” he drawls sarcastically.

She shoves his shoulder, finally cracking a smile, “Shut up, Jones.”

“Besides,” he says sitting up and scooting closer to the center console, “I’m fairly certain you’d be able to handle a pathetic attacker.” She shuffles in place slightly at that and he has to stop himself from reaching out to press his fingers at the place where her cheeks are starting to tint a little red. “And for what it’s worth, if it came to it, I’d throw myself in the way of a knife for you.”

“What if he has a gun?”

“Now you’re just pushing it.”

She grins, “And they say chivalry is dead.”

“I’m always a gentleman.” He works open the glove compartment, a soft cheer escaping his lips when he finds the two bars still there. He hands her the one with chocolate chips and keeps the fruit and nut one for himself.

She gives him a look of puzzlement for a second before it registers that he was the one that had left them there originally, and then she’s grabbing the bar and tearing the wrapper off in one motion. “Thanks,” she mumbles around the oat and chocolate in her mouth.

He’s halfway through his own snack when she speaks up again, “Hey, Jones?”

“Hm?” He turns to her, noticing how easily discernable her green eyes still are even in the darkness.

“For the record, I’d die for you, too,” she bites down on her lower lip after she says it, and it’s not the first time his heart has fluttered in her presence but it still gets to him. (Always does, always will.) “Of course,” she adds with a half shrug, “I’d haunt you in the afterlife but really, it’s the thought that counts.”

The laughter bubbles out of him and soon enough hers joins in, the joyous sounds bouncing off the ceiling off her car.

Her dimples wink at him when he looks at her once more, her soft gaze set on him. She shakes her head with a small smile and shifts her eyes to the road in front of them. And it’s not the first time he’s wanted to kiss her, not by a longshot, but he reins it in as he always does.

“I’d be more than happy to have you by my side even if you’re strewing open all my kitchen drawers in the middle of the night in your ghostly revenge.”

“I’d probably break all your lamps, too.”

“I figured,” he says, smiling wider. “I’d still keep you around.”

It takes her a few beats to reply but when she does, he swears she means it and it flares the flicker of hope in him. “Good.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8\. dialogue prompt: “Will you just shut up for a moment so I can say something nice to you!” + “That came out wrong.”  
> (c. 2017)

Killian can barely feel his limbs by the time the chase is over and the criminals have been apprehended and brought in. He puts all his weight on his right leg, wary of his left that — injured in a tackle last week — appears to be throbbing now.

He slumps down in his chair. It rolls a little backwards under his pressure and he can’t be bothered to drag it back to its original place. Not right now anyway; he’ll give himself a few minutes to collect himself and then proceed with the paperwork.

It’s late enough that it’s just him at his desk, their drug bust stretching out for longer than either him or Emma had expected. But he has nowhere to be, so he might as well get a head start on the documentation.

He hears footsteps and despite being turned away, he knows it’s her. He could recognise the heavy tread of her boots anywhere. It was only a matter of time before she sought him out to chew his ear off. He’s been preparing himself for this for hours.

“Jones, what the hell was that?”

He tilts his head to the side to regard her, a vision with her fierce expression and her hands on her hips. She’s tied her hair up and slid out of her signature red leather jacket. She looks like a marvel, and he laments for every instance she’s shot his teasing flirtatious down, every invitation for a celebratory drink she’s declined, and every smile she’s given him that’s disappeared before it’s even fully formed. Killian sighs and launches into his explanation, “I know, Swan, I didn’t follow the plan. But quite frankly I believe I was in the right. I saw an opening and I took it.”

“Jones—”

“And I know we talked about this and drew up a clear method to infiltrate them, and I know it was a risky move to burst in the way I did with the state my leg is in. It was not the brightest idea, I agree.”

“Jones—”

“But had I insisted on following through with our initial plan of attack, there is no doubt that one of the men would have found us out and have had us by our necks in an instant. Not to mention—”

“Damnit Killian, will you just shut up for a moment so I can say something nice to you!”

Killian’s mouth hangs halfway open, his words cut off instantly. His brain doesn’t make the connection to close it, not until Emma sighs and runs a hand over her face.

“Go on, then,” he mumbles after a moment. He sure as hell was not expecting her to sing his praises after he did what she specifically told him not to do.

“You are such an idiot,” she huffs out, and Killian makes a noise of resignation in the back of his throat. Emma squeezes her eyes shut and tilts her head heavenward. Under her breath, he hears her say, “That came out wrong.”

He sits up straighter when she opens her eyes and moves to lean on his desk, right in front of him.

“What I mean is,” she pauses, chews on her bottom lip, and then finally says, “thank you. If you hadn’t did what you did, that guy would’ve shot me. And then you. And then this whole thing would’ve been over.”

Killian furrows his brows, not sure how to take her sincerity despite it making his heart thud harder and his chest feel warmer. “I was only looking to protect you,” he says, his hand automatically going to scratch behind his ear.

“I know.” She nods and looks at her crossed arms. “But it was still a stupid move, your leg is jacked up and now you’ve probably made it worse.”

“Ah, and the true Swan returns,” he teases at her ability to throw insults at him in quick succession.

“Someone’s gotta keep you in check.”

“I thank the heavens every day that you’ve taken it upon yourself to do that job,” he smirks.

Emma rolls her eyes and stands up. “You should really get home, you’ve had a long day. And you should rest your leg.” She’s still giving him orders but the earnestness in her eyes betrays her.

“As much as I appreciate the concern, love, I think I’ll stick around for a little while.”

She hesitates for a second before giving him a stiff nod, and disappearing into the kitchen, no doubt to grab her things and be on her way. He knows how she works, her flight instinct a blaring alarm in her mind. There’s something about her walls that remind him so much of his own, something about her pain that makes him want to erase it.

He’s still musing on his infatuation with his partner when she comes back into his line of vision. She carefully places two mugs of coffee on his desk and slings off her messenger bag before heaving out a stack of papers.

She’s rolled over a chair and seated herself on the opposite end of the desk before Killian catches on to what’s happening.

“Forgive me if I sound rude, but what are you doing?”

“I figured you could use some company.” She doesn’t meet his eyes, instead opting to unnecessarily sift through her papers. “Besides, I thought we could have a celebratory drink.”

Killian’s eyes move from her to the mugs, and before he knows it, he’s opening his drawer and uncorking his flask of rum. He raises his eyebrows in question and she nods.

“You keep alcohol in your desk?” Emma asks, a smirk forming on her lips.

“You don’t?” he shoots back.

She hums, but doesn’t say anything else. She lifts up her mug in a toast when he’s done and he follows suit. “To getting the job done.”

“To us,” he amends, “we do make quite the team.”

Emma smiles. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

(And when she kisses him after a few hours of conversation and laughter, tasting of caffeine and rum, there’s no doubting how good of a team they do make.)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 9\. “Excuse me if I don’t believe your psychic friend.” — watch me squish in pining best friends into any and every verse I can  
> (c. 2017)

When she’d met Killian Jones, it hadn’t taken her long to figure out that he was superstitious. Sure, Emma’s perceptive, but there was also the fact that one time he’d walked all the way around the block to avoid crossing paths with a black cat.

Apparently, when you’ve lived at sea most of your life, you tend to believe in things like that. Or, maybe it was just Killian. Either way, over the years, Emma had learnt to live with his beliefs, opting not to put the salt shaker next to his place on the table during their weekly dinners. Unknowingly, she’d adjusted her life around her best friend’s fear of supernatural casualties, and she couldn’t really bring herself to mind.

Which is why she blames herself for Killian bursting in through her apartment door at nine in the morning on a Sunday. He’s always been an early riser, the Navy man in him refusing to quit, but he knows better than to bother her before midday.

“Swan,” he prods her while she’s attempting to sleep. Emma pulls the covers higher over her head to block him out. “Swan, where do you keep your tape?”

Emma tries to tell him to go away, but it comes out in an incoherent mumble; the only way she’s able to form sentences without her caffeine.

Killian sighs heavily, and she hears him beginning to open up drawers. “Bloody hell, does nothing have its place around here?”

She manages to crack an eye open to watch his blurry form rummaging through her things. “Your place is not here this early,” she gets out. Words in the morning are hard.

“It’s an emergency, love.”

“A tape emergency?”

He stops what he’s doing and looks back at her. There’s a soft expression on his face, but she blinks and it’s gone, and she can only believe she imagined it. “Something of that sort.”

Emma props herself on her elbows. “Killian.”

“Swan,” he replies.

“Come on, what’s going on?” She pats the place next to her on the bed.

He hesitates but then comes to sit beside her, his hand reaching to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “You’re going to think me mad.”

“That’s nothing new,” she says teasingly. He doesn’t respond, instead keeps watching her closely. So she reaches for his left wrist, noting that he’s forgone his prosthetic today. “You can tell me.”

“I had breakfast with Merlin this morning.” Emma makes a sound of annoyance at the back of her throat, but Killian continues, “He told me that someone very important to me will be hurt soon.”

Emma furrows her brows. “And you’re here to find tape to seal his mouth shut?”

That gets a small smile out of him, even if it doesn’t last long. “I’m here because there’s no one more important to me than you, Swan. And because you’re terribly clumsy so I thought I’d bubble wrap the corners of your tables, especially that bloody glass one in the living room.”

She watches his mouth move but her brain is stuck on the fact that he’d just called her the most important person in his life. She shakes her head a little to snap herself out of it, and tightens her hold on his forearm. “Killian, nothing’s going to happen to me.”

“But Merlin said—”

“Well, excuse me if I don’t believe your _psychic_ friend.” He opens his mouth but she cuts him off, “I know these things are important to you, and you’re probably going to make sure I don’t walk under ladders, or whatever, but I’m _fine_. I’m going to be fine.”

He doesn’t seem convinced at her words, but nods nonetheless. “At least,” he starts, and then stops to bite his lower lip in thought. “At least keep this.” He pulls out a long chain from under his shirt, a ring hanging at its end. She knows the story; it was his brother’s but it was given to him. Killian never takes it off. “I’ve always believed this is what kept me alive out at sea.”

“Killian, I can’t take that. It’s too important to you.”

He shakes his head, and drapes the necklace over her head and around her neck, fiddling with the ring at the end of it. “Not more than you. Please, Swan, for my peace of mind.”

She sighs, still a little off balance by his words. “Okay.” His whole face lights up, and its moments like these that make her want to screw it all and just reach out and kiss him. But she doesn’t, instead she kicks him out of her room and demands he make breakfast for waking her up so early.

And if she smiles too wide at the sight of his necklace around her when she sees it in the mirror, then that’s for her to know.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10\. dialogue prompt: “I’ll sleep under the sheets, you sleep on top of them.” (aka, a best friends mutual pining bed sharing situation)  
> (c. 2017)

“The floor will suffice for me,” Killian says after the few minutes of tense silence they’ve spent staring at the one bed in the hotel room.

This is what she gets for not double checking the booking. This is also what she gets for encouraging Mary Margaret to ask David out. Because now they’re all cozied up in one bed and she’s trying not to suffocate in the tension pressing down on her.

The thing is, this wouldn’t be an issue under normal circumstances. Her and Killian have fallen asleep cuddled up on couches and floors and in the back seats of cars on long road trips. But _the thing is_ , Emma’s become all too aware of her feelings for him ever since the second day of this trip. Which is inconvenient as hell because she can’t exactly avoid him when he’s right _there_.

Still, she’s been keeping her distance, her flight instinct kicking into full gear, and he’s caught on to the drift between them. He’d tried to talk to her about it — because that was easy between them, the talking and the confessing and all of that — but Emma’s stubborn when she puts her mind to something.

And right now all she wants is to run out of the room and straight to David’s truck and huddle up in the back and never come out. But she’s an _adult_ and it’s been a week since she’s started sidestepping Killian, and she misses him. And she also kind of wants to kiss him but that’s the whole problem.

“Don’t—” she huffs, clears her throat. “Don’t be ridiculous, we can share the bed.” She sounds as unconvinced as she feels.

Killian sighs. “Perhaps if I went down and had a chat with reception again, they might have had a cancellation.” Emma grabs his arm as he turns towards the door and she feels him still completely. God, she’s really fucking up this friendship.

“It’s late, we’re both tired. We can share the bed.” It comes out more confident this time and Killian nods.

They take turns changing, and if she wasn’t like this, they’d be filling the space between them with jokes and conversation that meant nothing while meaning everything. A few minutes later, they find themselves standing by the bed once again, sizing it up.

“I’ll take the right side,” Emma says just for the sake of saying something, and pulls down the sheets.

He hesitates. “I’ll sleep on top of the sheets, you sleep under them.”

“It’s freezing, you’re going to get sick.” She has no reason to be annoyed with how he’s acting when she’s the one that started this and yet, she can’t help herself.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do, Swan.” He runs his hand through his hair, voice growing agitated. “I’m trying to make this comfortable for you since you clearly don’t want me around.”

“That’s not true,” she crosses her arms.

“No? You’ve barely spoken to me since this trip started, and you can barely even look at me right now.” He’s not wrong. She’s been staring at the tip of his chin, his neck, the tuft of hair that almost falls in his eyes. It’s much easier than meeting his gaze and letting herself fall harder. Killian steps into her space, clearly determined to finally get her to talk about this. “What did I do to drive you this far away from me, Emma?”

“Nothing.”

“Emma.”

She makes the mistake of looking at him, and he just looks so _sad_ and damn it she _misses_ him. “I can’t do this, okay?” she blurts out. His hand stops halfway where he was reaching for her.

“You can’t do what?” His hand drops.

“This,” she gestures between them. His face falls and she knows she’s saying the wrong things but she’s never been good with words. So when he takes a step back, it’s all she knows to do to fist her hands in his shirt and haul him back, slanting her lips over his.

When Killian doesn’t move, Emma regrets it instantly. Because what the fuck is she doing? Sure, they flirt a little but they’re _friends_ and she shouldn’t be going around kissing her friend like—

Well, like the way he’s kissing her now: hard, fierce, with his arms wrapping tightly around her, like he’s pouring out everything he has into it.

When they break apart, he holds her close.

“Is this what you want?” he rasps out. “Because I have been wanting to do that for months.”

Emma lets out a huff of laughter that’s mostly just disbelief. “Now will you sleep on the damn bed?”

He smiles, a small thing. “We should talk about this.”

“In the morning, I promise. I’m too tired right now,” she says softly, reveling in the fact that she can press her nose into his neck.

“As you wish,” he replies, voice still rough.

In the morning, she wakes up to their limbs tangled and his heartbeat steady under her ear. And she doesn’t know if she does have the courage to talk about it, but when the receptionist calls their room to let her know that they had a cancellation and have a single room available, Emma tells her that they don’t need it, that they’re good right where they are.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11\. prompt: “So your tv is facing the window and you’ve been watching ‘Say Yes to the Dress’ for three days straight I just want to make sure you're okay” — my friends on tumblr just like to have me write the most ridiclous things and I love it  
> (c. 2015)

She thought he might be dead. Well, perhaps that was jumping to conclusions. **  
**

Still, it was why Emma Swan, who had never penned herself down as the neighbourly sort, found herself shuffling her feet on her neighbour’s doormat. Her stare was burning a hole into said doormat (a navy blue shade with a white _Ahoy!_ plastered across it in a cursive font) as she contemplated just why she was doing this.

Her and Killian Jones were acquaintances at best. In the two months that she’d lived in this town, the man had made it a habit to wish her good morning every weekday from across the street when they’d be getting into their cars to go to their workplaces. In more instances than one, he’d shown up on her doorstep asking for sugar or milk or something of the like, a beaming smile plastered on his face. He’d wink at her and tell her he’d see her around. She tolerated him; rolling her eyes at his lazy smirks and innuendo loaded speech.

(And maybe they’d had lunch together once or twice when they ran into each other in town. And maybe he was a charming bastard that was beginning to rub off on her. Not that she’d ever acknowledge it.)

But despite her desire to elbow him in the ribs every time that arrogant smile flitted across his (rather handsome, she’d grudgingly admit) face, she still found her gut clenching with concern as she noticed him through her living room window, sprawled across his couch, silhouette glowing with the blue and white hue of the television screen, for the third day straight. From as much as she could gather, he was a rather popular man amongst the people of the town, so to see him holed up in his house (especially on a Friday evening), marathoning, what she could make out as, that wedding dress show she despised, was definitely something out of the ordinary.

She’d groaned as she’d trudged across the street to his house, convincing herself that this was the right thing to do. What if he was ill and had no one to pass him his medicine? What if he was injured and couldn’t move?

(It definitely was _not_ a decision made based upon the fact that she’d missed seeing his blue eyes crinkle at the ends whenever he smiled at her.)

(Nope, she was merely a concerned citizen looking out for her fellow neighbour.)

(Her very handsome fellow neighbour.)

She raised a hand to knock loudly on his door, mentally conjoining sentences so that she didn’t sound desperate or ridiculous or plain stupid when he answered. She sucked in her lower lip between her teeth just as the door swung open. Jolting her head up, she found him with his brows furrowed, head slightly tilted to one side as he blinked and took her in with confusion.

She saw a flicker of something pass over his face but he schooled his expression almost immediately into something more mischievous, infuriating grin plastered on in an instant. “Swan, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

And he didn’t seem distraught, minus the smudge of dark skin under his eyes (really, it just made the blue in them stand out), a rather minimal slouch in his shoulders, and a silver of hoarseness in his voice. (She told herself that anyone could identify the change in his posture, and if not, well, then she was merely observant.)

“Uh hi,” she raised her hand in a lame wave, which caused his grin to grow ever so slightly as if sensing he had some kind of effect on her. (He didn’t, she _refused_ to admit it.) “You know I have no interest in your life Jones, but I can see your tv from my living room window and you’ve had that damn wedding dress show playing for the past three days straight, and I just wanted to make sure you weren’t, I guess, dead or something.”

He brought a hand to rub the back of his neck almost sheepishly and _God_ , why did she think this was a good idea again?

“Worried about me, are you?”

“Just wanted to know if I should be calling 911 yet, rotting corpses aren’t really good for neighbourhood atmospheres.”

“Joke all you wish, love, but you’re something of an open book,” he chuckled.

She scoffed. Here she was, trying to make sure the bed bugs hadn’t made his body their new home, and he was flirting with her?

“Well, then, I’ll leave you to it,” she made to spin on her heel but his voice halted her.

“Wait, Swan, I —,” he sighed and she watched his eyes shift down to his feet, “I’m not used to people checking up on me, I apologize. Would you like to come in? I wager you’re curious about my choice in reality television, after all.”

The dark hallway of his house behind him did little to soothe her mind regarding his invitation. But he was right, she had always been a curious soul (it had absolutely _nothing_ to do with the strange sort of pull he elicited on her), and so, against the inevitable thought that she’d regret this later, she nodded.

-/-

The one thing she hadn’t expected was for Killian Jones to be a hoarder. Or, perhaps, she was just comparing his scattered trinkets with the empty shelves and bare walls of her own house across the street. This was a man who clearly cherished his memories; his tens of hundreds of memories, she noted.

She’d been observing a particularly joyful picture hung by the couch of two men; one she identified as a much younger Killian (sans the scruff he adorned at present) and the other, who seemed older, with darker, curlier hair but with the same gleam in his eyes, arm wrapped around her neighbour’s shoulders.

“My brother,” she heard him say from behind her, “he’s in the British Navy.”

She turned around to face him, taking the mug of hot cocoa (he’d offered her the drink with a smug roll of his tongue, and damn her if it didn’t impress her slightly that he recalled what she had mentioned once in passing) from his hands with a grateful nod. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop.”

“Says the woman who marched to my front door in order to know why I was watching _Say Yes to the Dress_ ,” he chuckled, moving to sit on the couch, patting the cushion next to him.

She rolled her eyes as she plopped down beside him, leather cushions letting out a soft puff of air from beneath her. “More like, why are you missing work to watch _Say Yes to the Dress_?”

“Ah, I knew you missed seeing me around, Swan.”

She shot him her hardest glare, and he laughed.

“Alright, I did say I’d tell you,” he started, dragging his teeth over his lower lip in what she assumed was thought. (She reminded herself that now was not the time to be staring at his lips.) “Well, a couple of years ago, I dated this lass, Ariel, quite the spirited one might I add. She had a rather strange affinity with this tv show and I despised it with all my being. We broke up about three years ago, but every year on the day of our breakup, my mates pool together to send me a season box set of this ridiculous show.

"I never watch them but I came home rather drunk a couple of nights back and decided it would be a brilliant idea. And now,” he gestured to the paused programme before running a hand through his already messy hair, “I’m afraid I might have a slight addiction.”

Emma choked on her cocoa, willing herself not to burst into laughter. The thought of town heartthrob Killian Jones falling into an endless virtual spiral of wedding dresses was definitely not what she expected.

Her resolve only lasted so long before she ended up doubling over with laughter, managing to place the mug on the end table just in time for it not to spill.

“Yes, Swan, get it all out of your system,” he mumbled harshly, but she could hear amusement in his voice.

“Oh God, I’m sorry, that’s just so —”

“Pathetic?”

“I was going to say out of character, but yeah, pathetic works too,” she mused, swiping the back of her hand over her cheeks to wipe away stray tears. God, she hadn’t laughed like that in a while.

“Now that you know my darkest secret, love, I’m afraid I’m going to have to kill you.”

“What are you going to do? Bury me in lace?” She quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Very funny, Swan,” he deadpanned. He bent over and reached for the remote, hitting play and settling back into the couch.

She watched him with a smile on her lips, attempting to understand just what the hell was going on. She was sitting on Killian Jones’s couch as he watched a stupid, girly reality show. If you would have told her a week ago that she’d be in this situation, she would have laughed in your face. But now, even though he was obviously giving her a chance to leave, she found herself wanting to stay here, in his company. And that was something that should scare her. But it didn’t.

She pushed herself into one corner of the couch and brought her legs up to rest under her. From the corner of her eye, she saw him questioningly tilt his head towards her as she nestled into a comfortable position and grabbed her mug, but she kept her eyes glued to the screen.

(Of course, he hadn’t expected her to stay. Hell, she hadn’t even expected to stay.)

She could swear she saw him smile and it left a flutter of _something_ in her stomach that she didn’t care to name. Not yet, anyway.

She’d deal with it all later, she mused. Right now, she only had a mind to listen to her neighbour grumble about how _Jessica picked the wrong bloody dress,_ and that _she should have gone with the second one, it suits her figure better_ , and of course, _why the fuck do they keep crying_. She smiled into the mug, mind dangerously drifting to how she could learn to enjoy this show, as long as he was the one she was watching it with.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dialogue prompt: "teach me to fight" + lt. duckling  
> (c. 2016)

“Princess, for the last time, I cannot allow you to go out into town, alone, at this time of night,” Killian says, puffing out his chest as if it’ll grant him authority.

“I can protect myself, Lieutenant.”

“If you wish to go, I will accompany you as per my duty,” he dismisses her completely. His duty, gods, Emma’s _this_ close to rolling her eyes at this man and his _duty_. Leave it to her father to hire a naval lieutenant to keep guard of her after their kingdom had been threatened by a sorceress from the West. The man may be nice to look at but he has a rod up his back and it makes her life a living nightmare.

“I don’t want you to accompany me,” she huffs, fastening her steps along the corridor.

“Your Highness, you know you aren’t skilled in the arts of swordplay and close combat.” He’s right, she never really managed to grasp it despite her father teaching her ever since she was old enough to hold a sword without falling over. But she’s only 19, she still has time to learn, which—

She spins around to face him, almost bumping her nose into his chest. He immediately steps back and puts some distance between them, but not enough because she still has to crane her neck to look him in the eyes. “Then teach me how to fight.”

He sputters for a second before regaining his ever-present composure. “I couldn’t possibly, Your Highness.”

She often wonders why he’s so stiff, especially considering how young he is. Sure, her royal persona differs from her casual one, but she’s been around Lieutant Killian Jones for months on end, and eventually she’d let her facade of propriety slip around him moment after moment, until it just didn’t exist. Even though she finds him easy to be around, he’s still insufferable more than half of the time.

“Yeah,” she says reasons, suddenly struck by how plausible the idea really is, “Papa hasn’t been teaching me because of his travels and he won’t hire anyone else to do it unless he trusts them. You have naval training, I’m sure you know your way around a weapon.”

His eyes flit to everywhere except her own and she has to hide her smirk at his shyness. “I’m merely part of the navy, hardly a man worthy of teaching you techniques beyond the basic.”

She isn’t sure how many layers there are to this man, the one who doesn’t quite realise how successful he is for his age. Making lieutenant at 21 is hardly a common feat. “My parents believe you worthy,” she counters, and watches as the idea settles in his mind.

She doesn’t know why she’s pushing this, simply that it’s lodged itself in her brain and she’s nothing if not stubborn.

“Aye, but that’s—”

“Lieutenant,” she says in her best commanding voice, shoulders back and chin out just like her mother taught her. It works because he’s got his eyes back on her, back going ramrod straight in an instant. “This is an order from your Princess.”

She sees the moment he resigns himself to his fate, sighing and squeezing his eyes shut. He mutters something about the crown and kingdom but it’s too low for Emma to catch.

She’s grinning, though, as he sidesteps her and sweeps an arm out in the direction that they came from. “To the courtyards, then?”

Emma has to stop herself from smirking as she leads the way, feeling his presence behind her as she’s come to get used to. It’s him that she’s gotten used to, really.

She resolves not to think about it too much, but as Killian begins the lesson — stepping a little closer to her with each moment, blue eyes glinting in the lamplight, movements she can't tear her eyes away from when he picks up the sword — she wonders if she can chalk up the quickening of her heartbeat to the anticipation of the fight or if it is something else entirely.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13\. dialogue prompt: “I do not snore, do I?” “Like a chainsaw.”  
> (c. 2017)

Emma doesn’t know how she got here. They’re sitting sprawled all over David, Kristoff and Killian’s shared apartment. It’s the middle of the night (or, early in the morning), they’ve all had too much to drink in celebration of the end of the semester and now, for some reason, they’re in the middle of discussing sleeping habits.

She thinks it started with Mary Margaret talking about how David steals all the blankets. But she could be mistaken.

It circles back around to him and he mentions how Emma snored growing up.

“I do not snore,” she looks at Ruby, hoping her roommate will come to her aid, “do I?”

“Like a chainsaw,” Killian mumbles from his place on the couch. She’s been trying to ignore him ever since she got here, and his voice makes it abundantly harder to do just that. The feeling of his eyes on her, that’s another thing, too.

“Fuck you,” she replies automatically, without turning to him.

“Oh darling, I wish you would,” he drawls out.

She doesn’t hate Killian Jones. It’s just that she slept with him the one time and no matter how hard she’s tried to get him out of her head, she can’t. So she retaliates the only way she knows how: like an overgrown child. It’s easy when he does the same, in, well, a bit more suggestive way.

David makes a noise of annoyance and shoots Killian a hard look before making an excuse to go to the kitchen.

“Wait, how do _you_ know she snores?” Ruby sits up, and Emma swears she sees her ears actually perk up.

“I do not snore.”

“Shut up, Emma.” Ruby doesn’t take her eyes off Killian. “Well?”

And now Emma’s got a lump in her throat, knowing full well this is the moment he spills their secret. It was supposed to be a one time thing that they never talked about again. But Killian just loves pushing her buttons and pissing her off, so when he opens his mouth to answer, she’s sure he’s about to fuck her over. (Again. But, in a less pleasurable way this time.) (She’s really got to get him out of her head.)

“She passed out on our couch after too many drinks once,” he lies. “That’s not a noise one easily gets out of his bloody head.” He proceeds to make a snoring noise that’s supposed to be what she sounds like, and it makes Kristoff and Mary Margaret laugh.

She does look at him then, his mouth quirked up from one corner but no real joy in his eyes. She hates that she knows what he’s feeling just by the look on his face. What she doesn’t know is why he didn’t just out her to Ruby, knowing she’d tear her down like the wolf she is.

She spends the rest of the night a little more subdued, caught a little too much in her head. It doesn’t take too long before everyone starts falling asleep, either in their places or on the couches or beds.

Killian steps into the kitchen to pour himself a little more rum from the bottle he takes out from the cabinet. Emma follows him into the dimly lit room, a quiet humming from the fridge surrounding them.

“Why didn’t you tell her?” Emma says softly, but with a hint of accusation in her tone. All her life people have taken advantage of her, the poor orphan girl. She doesn’t like the idea that she might owe him for this.

“Tell whom what?” he asks, the smartass, as he down his glass in one go.

Emma finds herself by his side without knowing she’s actually moved. She blames the whiskey. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Killian sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. After a moment, he says, “Despite what you think, Swan, I’m not a complete arse.”

“I don’t think that.” Killian scoffs. “Okay, sometimes I do.” He gives her a look that says _I told you so_ , and it takes all of her not to roll her eyes. “Well, thanks. For not saying anything, I mean.”

“I’m a man of my word, love. Besides, I have no doubt you’d murder me with an actual bloody chainsaw if I ever went against what you’ve asked of me.” His mouth lifts up, eyes devoid of emotion once again.

She doesn’t hate Killian Jones. She’d actually much rather have his real smiles than the fake ones he pastes on for the rest of their friends. For her quite often. She’d much rather have them pressed up against her mouth, her neck, the inside of her thighs.

Emma’s sure this isn’t the right way to act around someone you kind of sort of like. And definitely not someone you want to sleep with again. In the moment it takes for his smile to drop and for him to just stare at her, she realises just how badly she wants him.

And she could blame the whiskey, but she knows it wouldn’t be the whole truth. So when she pulls him by the collar of his sweater, and meets his lips with her own, she knows it’s all on her.

“Emma?” he asks roughly when she pulls back.

“I promise not to snore this time,” she whispers, hoping he’ll understand where she’s going with this.

Killian’s hands slip from her waist to her hands to pry them off, and she suddenly feels like an idiot. He isn’t nice to her, because he doesn’t like her. What made her think he’d want to sleep with her again?

“I can’t do this again, Swan.” She’s trying to pull her hands out of his grasp slowly, staring at his chin so she doesn’t meet his gaze. He bends down to catch her eyes, and she stills because all she can make out is longing. “If I do then I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop. And you can’t give me what I want from you.”

“What’s that?” she asks meekly after a few moments of stuttering silence.

“Everything. I want all of you, Emma.”

She furrows her brows and he lets her go, taking a step back. “Well, you sure have a funny way of showing it.”

He scoffs out a laugh. “And you’d have responded so well to my pining, aye?” He runs a hand through his hair. “Apologies, I should be getting to bed.”

“Okay, let’s do it,” she blurts out, and he halts, his back to her. She’s thought about it more than once, dating Killian. She’s just never let herself _want_ it. They were kind of friends before their one-time-fuck-buddy thing turned them into whatever the hell they are now. But there are parts of him that are so much like her that she thinks she knows him without actually knowing him, already.

“Pardon?” He turns around.

“You, me, the whole thing.”

“Emma, this isn’t a joke.”

She steps forward and slides her hands up his chest, resting close enough to feel his erratic heartbeat. “You’re so frustrating, isn’t this what you want?”

“I don’t want you to regret it.”

She inches closer. “Just shut up and kiss me.”

He does.

And when she wakes up in the morning in his arms, she snuggles closer and feels his grip tighten around her waist. It doesn’t scare her like she thought it would, and as Killian places soft kisses down the back of her neck, she feels his smile on her skin. She realizes that just maybe she wants all of him, too.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 14\. prompt: "One character adjusting the other's jewelry/neck tie/ etc." — another pirate/princess (star-crossed romance) au because I love writing those  
> (c. 2017)

“And then?” Emma urges him from behind the wooden folding panel, excitement evident in her voice.

Killian chuckles. “Then, I knocked two out when they came below deck, hands tied behind my back. Fought my way up after cutting the rope and nicking a sword. I had the captain on his knees in no time, sword to his throat and control of his ship in my hands. That’ll teach him to capture the crew of the Jolly.”

He admits, he has quite a bit of fun regaling his tales, especially to her. Even if her immediate response is almost always—

“How much of that is true?”

“I assure you, love,” he replies, putting hand to his heart even though she can’t see, “I would never lie to you.”

Emma hums in what he knows to be mock disbelief, but he can hear her amusement. It’s a game she plays, teasing him. He enjoys it quite a bit.

Killian fiddles with a trinket of a wooden swan on her dresser, turning it over and over in his hand before setting it back down. He looks up to see himself in the small mirror that hangs on her wall, and notes, not for the first time, how out of place his rougish character seems in the pristine room. He isn’t allowed to be in here, in the princess’ bedchambers; it isn’t _proper_. But propriety left the equation the first time Emma kissed him in an alleyway behind a tavern, so there’s that.

He never would have thought, in any life, that the paths of a pirate captain and a princess would ever cross, let alone become so intimately entangled.

“You sure you don’t want to join me at the ball?” his princess asks.

“Though I do appreciate the offer, I prefer my head attached to my neck.”

“Let it be known that the terror of the seven seas, the notorious Captain Hook, fears the Prince Consort,” Emma snorts. It is so unladylike, so far—he’s sure—from the mannerisms that would have been taught to her growing up. There is something to be said about this, the bits she hides from the rest of the kingdom but that are given so freely to him. He smiles.

“It’s your mother that terrifies me, darling.”

Emma laughs, and it warms him from the inside. He’s a fool to have fallen in love with a princess, one who is fierce and intelligent, one who renders him useless with a touch, one whom he has no future with, would never truly be deserving of.

“So?” Emma says, piercing his thoughts. He hears a rustle of fabric and turns around, finding her in a gown of gold-ish beige, beads catching in the candlelight so it looks like she’s glowing.

He tries to speak but no words come out. She looks enchanting, he wants to tell her, riveting, like a glimmer of light in a long, dark existence. (His, specifically, but perhaps he shouldn’t get too carried away.)

Emma watches him curiously, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear.

“You’ve rendered me speechless,” he gets out, a soft laugh swallowing up the last syllable. She rolls her eyes but grins anyway.

She hasn’t put on her high heeled shoes yet so she’s still a foot shorter than him when he steps closer. He reaches out his hand to the back of her neck, tracing the delicate golden chain she’s wearing. He gently tugs it out of the place where it’s caught itself in the handiwork of the strap of her dress.

The pendant is a gemstone, rare and unheard of in this land. It is the exact shade of green that matches her eyes. He’d gotten it for her on the occasion of her birthday a few months prior. He can’t help the way the side of his mouth quirks up.

Killian rights the direction of the necklace and stops his hand just shy of the pendant, thumb stroking her collarbone slowly. The air of lightness has subsided and when he looks up, he finds Emma fixated on him, gaze intense and breaths shallow.

“Truly, you look stunning.”

When she kisses him, it’s deliberately slow and deep as though she’s attempting to slow down time. He knows, he’s guilty of it, too. His hooked arm encircles her waist and he presses her closer, wishing this could be a permanent embrace, and not one shared in secret behind locked doors and in shadowed alleys under disguises.

“This thing would be much more fun with you, Killian,” she murmurs, nudging his nose with hers once she breaks the kiss. They both know he can’t attend a royal gathering, not with the crimes of thievery and disservice to the crown on his head.

“Aye, I’m loath to miss an evening with you,” he rasps out. “But I’ll meet you after, and we’ll make sure you have some fun, hm?”

He feels her smirk pressed up against his lips when he kisses her.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 15\. part 1 of 2 of a fluffy established relationship cat owners fic  
> (c. 2017)

In all the years he’s spent knowing Emma Swan, Killian has become accustomed to her habits and her routines, has adapted a sort of sixth sense when it comes to reading her and predicting what she’s going to say a millisecond before she says it.

Still, there are moments that she surprises him.

Moments like when they’d spent far too long untangling and putting up Christmas lights in her apartment, a little tipsy on rum, and she’d told him, for the first time, that she was glad that he was in her life.

Moments like when she’d grabbed him by the lapels of his leather jacket and kissed the living sense out of him after she’d showed up at his apartment in the middle of the night.

Moments like when he asked her not to run, and she didn’t.

Moments like— well, like finding her huddled on their couch with a black kitten in her lap, its body curled into a ball and purring a soft rhythm. He’s suddenly frozen in place, the gentleness of the whole picture making his chest feel warm.

“Oh, hey,” Emma says, a little startled, obviously not having heard him come in. Her eyes dart to the takeout bag in his hands. “You brought dinner.”

“I did,” he nods. He turns to the kitchen island and drops down the bags, unable to tear his eyes away from Emma and the small smile on her face as she scratches behind the kitten’s ears. He tries to recall if when he’d left for work this morning, whether or not there was a kitten mulling about. He’s getting old, but not old enough to forget something like _that_. “Where did that cat come from?”

“I found him on my way back from work, and he looked hungry.” She shrugs, and Killian feels the smile tug on the corner of his mouth. Her compassion is one thing she cannot hide from him, no matter how hard she tries.

“And since when have you been partial to felines?” he teases, sliding down next to her. He curls his fingers into the kitten’s soft fur and hears him purr louder.

“I like cats.” Killian hums disbelievingly. “I _do_.”

There’s a stripe of white that runs down from the kitten’s nose to the base of his stomach, and Killian grins as Emma traces it from where it begins to the tip of his chin. She does it absently, like she’s already done it a hundred times.

“You know, Liam and I had a black cat much like this one when I was younger,” he muses. It’s one of the fonder memories of his childhood, one that reminds him of the calm in between the harshness of the life he and Liam shared growing up. “His name was Jolly,” he chuckles, more to himself than anything.

The nod Emma gives him is faint. When he looks up at her, she’s got a twist to her lips he can’t quite place. “Liam might have mentioned it to me a few weeks ago,” she mutters out quickly.

It takes Killian a second, his hand hovering to a halt over the kitten’s small paw when he registers her words. He furrows his brows in confusion, but Emma must take it as disapproval because she rushes to explain herself. “I know, I probably should have asked. But, Liam said you loved your cat growing up and that he’d never seen you so happy than when you were playing with him, and I thought, you know, you should have something in your life that makes you that happy. And that, okay, maybe you don’t want a cat, because you would have gotten one yourself if you did, but—”

He stops her rambling by surging forward and pressing his lips to hers. She melts into it immediately, and he feels a swell of adoration for her that’s larger than anything he’s ever felt before.

“You got a cat for me?”

Emma gives him a nonchalant shrug of her right shoulder. “Well, he’s kind of _ours_ , but, yeah.”

“Thank you,” he tells her seriously, so she knows how much it means to him. He kisses her once more, chastely. Against her lips, he murmurs, “But please remember, love, I do have something in my life that makes me that happy. I have you.”

She grins, and then tampers it down a few notches before saying, “Could you not one up me when I’m trying to show you how much you mean to me?”

Killian huffs out a laugh. “I will attempt to keep my displays of adoration for you to a minimum, how about that?” She hums, and he wraps an arm around her and resumes sifting his fingers through the kitten’s fur. “Swan, honestly, you told me once you’d never have a pet because they were too much effort.”

“Look, buddy, we have the cat, we’re keeping him.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. “Besides,” she adds softly prodding the kitten enough that his eyes flutter open in response, “you two have matching eyes. And I already have to deal with you, what’s one more blue eyed guy that steals my bed space?”

Killian releases an affronted noise from the back of his throat. “Well, in that case,” he announces, “I demand that I, too, receive regular cuddling.” He releases her and stretches himself out on the couch, his head in her lap, right next to the kitten who has resumed his nap.

Emma laughs loudly, but buries her other hand in his hair, and caresses him until his eyes drift shut in contented sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 16\. part 2 of 2 of a fluffy established relationship cat owners fic  
> (c. 2017)

The worst thing about living with Killian Jones is his constant need for everything to be tidy. He’ll straighten her boots and align them perfectly next to his while shaking his head, and she’ll find him reordering the kitchen drawers every few days while mumbling under his breath.

Scratch that, the worst thing about living with Killian Jones is living with him and a cat. If Emma had been thinking clearly when she’d made up her mind to get them a cat, she’d have just driven straight home without stopping at the animal shelter. And sure, she loves seeing Killian lying around with Jolly purring asleep on his chest, but there’s also the whole matter of Killian walking around their apartment with a lint roller every few days to get cat hair off of _everything_.

Emma isn’t messy, but it doesn’t exactly bother her that her jeans are dusted with fur. It does bother Killian, though, whose fussing turns up a few more volumes with every week that goes by.

And then Jolly hits his prime kitten years. The ones where he gets up on top of tables and knocks everything down to get their attention. Emma’s never had a cat, but she's known they can be a handful. Now she experiences it firsthand while she tucks every valuable into drawers like she’s raising a toddler and not a pet.

Killian, on the other hand, has decided over the last few days that it is his duty to discipline the kitten. “We can’t very well be responsible for bringing up a heathen, Swan,” he tells her while he Googles the best possible methods to calm Jolly down. By the end of the week, he’s scoured through articles and watched enough videos to call himself a cat expert. She’d think it was adorable if she wasn’t so tired of hearing about whatever new plan he’s decided to lay into action.

She’s at the station late one night, finishing a load of paperwork she’s been putting off for way too long. And, okay, kind of avoiding the craziness that waits for her when she gets back home. She loves Killian but _God_ , there’s only so much that she can take in one long stretch.

Heaving a sigh, she packs up her things and trudges out to her Bug. She knows from her own research that Jolly’s restlessness will only last a few more months, maybe a year, and then it’ll all be a bit better.

Emma comes home to find Killian sprawled across their bedroom floor, attempting to engage Jolly with a string of yarn, a bell tied to the end of it making it jingle every time he moves it to catch his attention.

“Do I even wanna know?” Emma mutters, standing at the doorway.

“If I engage him, he will tire himself out and sleep at night instead of walking around destroying our valuables,” Killian grunts. He heaves himself up onto his haunches and stares at Jolly, who’s gotten bored and jumped up onto their dresser, before turning to Emma. He pouts a little in disappointment and then saunters over to her, pecking her on the cheek. “Hello, love.”

“Hey,” she replies sweetly, and then tilts her head to the side to regard their kitten. “Hey, Jolly.” His ears perk up at the sound of his name and Emma smiles.

“He knocked over his bowl of water when I got back home,” Killian sighs.

“If you think about it, he only acts out when you’re around,” she teases.

Killian makes a sound of displeasure and Emma has to squeeze her lips to keep from smiling too hard. Despite his irritation with the kitten, she knows Killian can’t stand being away from Jolly for too long without missing him. He’s got a picture of the three of them on his lock screen, for God’s sake. (Her man is _adorable_.)

“Don’t make Jolly pick sides between us, Swan, you know that’s cruel for a child.”

She shakes her head. He’s made it a habit to call them his parents, and to call him their son, and she’s made it hers to remind him that Jolly’s their cat. “All I’m saying is, he never knocks over his water when he sees me.”

He mumbles what sounds like _whatever_ , and then proceeds to deflect by telling her they should have dinner. He brushes off his t-shirt of a few stray cat hairs and just before he’s out the doorway, he turns around and points a finger at Jolly, his eyes darting from the cat to the standing digital clock he’s sitting next to. “When I come back, that better be exactly where you found it,” he warns.

Emma has to cover her mouth while she trails out behind him.

He’s only halfway to the kitchen when there’s a crash from the bedroom. Instead of the outburst she expects, Killian simply stops in his tracks and exhales heavily before burying his head in his hands. She’s by his side in an instant, running her hands through his hair.

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s just a clock. He probably didn’t break it either, he’s just jumpy.” Quite frankly, Emma doesn’t know what to say. There’s no actual self help guide on “How To Console Your Boyfriend Over Losing A Disciplinary Battle With Your Cat.”

When Killian looks up, he’s got a hard set to his mouth and furrowed brows. “Am I a bad father, Swan?”

It is ridiculous and he is adorable, so she pulls him into a tight hug and presses a kiss to the side of his neck. “You’re the best father,” she whispers, hoping his childhood isn’t catching up to him in this obscure way. She pulls back and cradles his face in her hands. “He’s a cat, Killian, he doesn’t understand half the things we say to him.”

“What if you’re right about him not liking me?”

She gives him a half smile. “You’re the best person I know, there’s no way he doesn’t like you. Plus, he spends way more time curled up on you than he does on anyone or anywhere else.”

It takes him a moment but Killian nods and Emma leans forward to kiss him softly. She pulls him down to sit on the barstool of the kitchen and walks back into the bedroom. After she straightens up the clock, she carries Jolly out and puts him in Killian’s lap.

In an instant, he falls asleep, pressing his face further into Killian’s hand to keep being petted. Emma gives him a look to say “See, I’m right” before she busies herself in the kitchen. When she looks back, he’s smiling softly at Jolly and she wastes no time in taking her phone out and snapping a quick picture, knowing for sure that her two favourite boys are going to make it onto her lock screen.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 17\. dialogue prompt: "“Of all the people I could’ve gotten stuck in an elevator with, it just had to be you” + co-workers  
> (c. 2016)

Emma doesn’t have a problem with being cramped up in small spaces — years in the system warrants her being accustomed to fitting herself under beds and in closets. No, what she does have a problem with is being stuck in a small space with the insufferable man that’s currently smirking at her.

“Of all the people I could’ve gotten stuck in an elevator with, it just had to be you,” she grumbles under her breath.

Usually she’s good at avoiding him, has been exceptionally brilliant at it since the office Christmas party when they’d found themselves in the corner of her office with a treacherous piece of mistletoe above their heads. (It was Ruby who put it there, _of fucking course_.)

She’d always had some kind of semi-friendly banter with Jones but ever since that night, ever since she’d given in to her urges and pulled him down to her by the back of his neck, ever since she’d not only enjoyed it but wanted to do it again, she’s amped up the irritation tenfold, and become downright hostile.

It doesn’t help that he’s so insistent, keeps sending her ridiculous IMs through the office messaging system and he even dropped off a bear claw for her two mornings ago. She doesn’t know what game he’s playing but she wants no part in it. She’d made it absolutely clear that that was a one-time thing, no matter how many times her thoughts attempt to contradict her.

“You wound me, darling,” he gasps through his grin, a hand shooting up to his chest. “And here I thought we could make something of an adventure out of this.” She doesn’t need to look at him to know he’s got an eyebrow quirked up.

Emma just rolls her eyes, “You’re insufferable.” She uselessly taps at her phone to keep her mind (and hands) occupied, despite the little bar on top that reminds her that there’s no signal. He’d pressed the emergency call button though, but the maintenance crew had unhelpfully said it would take them close to 45 minutes to get it fixed.

It wouldn’t be too long, now that it was—

She glances at the time on her phone.

—it was only five minutes ago. She groans inwardly and slumps against the wall, keeping her eyes trained at the closed doors.

“What say we play a rousing round of 20 questions to pass the time, hm, Swan?”

“Not interested, Jones,” she mutters. What she is interested in is toeing off these stupid heels but she’d rather not look like she’s making herself comfortable in here. Jones, though, has no qualms doing just that; in a matter of seconds he’s seated himself on the floor with his legs stretched out in front of him, his pants inching up at the ankles to reveal his navy blue anchor socks. She’d think that was cute if she wasn’t so focused on not thinking of him at all.

Her phone’s battery is nearly over so playing a round of Candy Crush to pass the time is surely out. She glances over at Jones to see him ruffling through his satchel, producing a soft “aha” once he comes across what he’s looking for. She manages to look away before he catches her staring at the way he clenches his jaw, but right after, he’s calling her name to get her attention.

“Sustenance?” he asks when she finally looks at him, stretching out his arm to offer her a flask. She’d scoff if she wasn’t so parched — which is exactly why she bends the rest of the way to take it from him, a mumbled thanks on her lips before she takes a pull.

She’d planned to get home early and crash on her couch with some Netflix since it was the weekend tomorrow. But fate is a cruel bitch, and so is whoever runs the damn maintenance in this building.

“Might as well make yourself at home, love, we may be here a while,” he says before he puts the flask of rum to his own lips. His tone is softer, less teasing and something bordering on concern. She hates it. (Oh, but she doesn’t, not really.)

She shifts on her feet for a few seconds before conceding and slipping out of her heels to sit cross legged on the floor. She’s briefly glad she'd decided to wear her tights under her skirt today.

He offers her the flask again and she shakes her head, opting instead to tip her head back to rest on the wall and study the dim light of the elevator. It’s soothing somehow, the whole situation, like she’s suddenly in this bubble of comfort and out of the hectic schedule of her work day. Sure, she would be comfortable at home, too, bundled up under her blanket, but—

But there’s something to be said about the comfortable silence you can share with someone.

Especially if it’s someone you kind of like but don’t really want to.

(Emma’s got issues, sue her.)

“Do you plan on spending the next twenty minutes in pure silence?” he speaks up.

“Not if you plan on constantly interrupting it.” She cranes her neck to regard him and the smile flirting on his lips.

“Conversation isn’t a sin, love. We could have a normal one.”

“With you? I find that hard to believe,” she does scoff this time. She regrets it immediately when she sees his expression falter, but in a second he’s back to grinning and she wonders if she imagined it at all.

“Believe it or not, I am capable of it. They did make me head of marketing for a reason, Swan.”

She hums noncommittally and shifts her attention to the one thread at the hem of her skirt, picking at it with her fingers.

“We could speak of the weather,” he continues when she doesn’t respond, “or of the game last night but I’m not sure if you keep up with sport as meticulously as I do. Or, we could talk about me considering you never do ask how I’m doing.”

Emma huffs out a laugh of amusement. Maybe it’s the exhaustion of the week settling in, or her boredom, but she decides to indulge him just this once. (Well, twice, if she counts the kiss, but she’d rather not count the kiss.) “How are you doing, Jones?”

She practically hears his smile widening when he replies, “I’m faring rather well, love, and even better now that I get to spend a few minutes alone with this beautiful lass who works with me.”

She turns to him once more, “God, do you even know how to speak to someone without flirting or is that just your default setting?”

He scoots a little closer to her, enough that if he stretched his arm out, it would brush against her elbow. “I do believe that I can’t help myself when I’m around you.” He runs his tongue along his bottom lip and her eyes traitorously follow the movement before she can catch herself.

“You’re an idiot,” is what she settles on saying once she has a grip on her words again.

“I prefer scoundrel,” he chuckles, and she can’t help the way the side of her mouth lifts up, too. “Killian will do, as well, but I’d happily take anything just as long as it means you’re speaking to me.” His words had started off with their usual teasing lilt but ended up as something quieter, like it’s something he didn’t want to admit.

“I don’t blame you for running, Swan,” he adds on, a few long moments later, with a sigh, “however, I do blame myself for letting you.”

“Wasn’t the doughnut and those messages the exact opposite of that?” she asks incredulously, trying to understand how she found herself in the middle of a conversation she’s been avoiding for months on end.

“Love, if you think _that_ was me courting you then I find myself worrying for the kinds of romance that you’ve been denied in your life,” he seems genuinely confused by her words, furrowing his brows and studying her face. She hasn’t had the best track record with romance but she’d rather not get into that right now.

She shrugs then, not really realising that he’d moved even closer until her knee knocks into the side of his thigh when she shuffles in her spot.

“I know you said that it was a one-time thing and you clearly seem to be in no mood to discuss this right now, but I just wanted to tell you that I do care for you, Emma, and I don’t want to stop, no matter how hard you push me away.”

He says it with such conviction that she actually feels her heart tighten a little. “You don’t even know me,” she manages weakly.

“I’d like to.”

When she meets his gaze, she detects no lie there and that’s what she chalks it up to when she makes her decision to move forward and tentatively brush her lips against his. It’s a soft thing, but when she opens her eyes, Killian’s are squeezed shut, his forehead filled with wrinkles.

“Are you sure about this?” he says in a whisper as his eyes flutter open, “because I don’t want you to decide tomorrow that you’ve made a mistake.”

She pauses for a few moments, using them to really think it over. Really think about the feel of the hard planes of his body pressed against hers, the way he’d whispered her name into her lips in the dark of her office, the way his hand had inched a bit too high under her dress. She also thinks about having lunch with him those odd few times before it all, seeing the way his dimples formed when he made a joke he thought was particularly clever, the way he’s given her space despite how strong his feelings clearly are.

His feelings should give her pause, but instead they give her a push. And then she’s back with her lips pressing against Killian’s, harder this time as she cards her fingers through his hair. He pulls at her waist enough that she gets the hint, moving to straddle him without breaking the kiss.

The kiss isn’t as hurried and messy as the first one, not one in which they’re both battling for dominance. No, this one feels more like giving up the fight, like letting down defenses after months of construction. Emma tastes the rum on his lips and smiles. He pulls back only enough that his lips still brush hers when mirrors her action.

She slides a hand down his neck to his collarbone and taps it once. His fingers are teasing the hem of her skirt as he bends his head down to place kisses along her jaw, ending it with small nip to the place just behind her ear. She shudders and he chuckles into her skin.

“Go out with me?” he asks quietly, nose nudging at the side of her neck.

She nods, “Yeah, okay.” And then as an afterthought, “Don’t tell Ruby, though.”

He laughs, and continues up until she captures his lips with hers once again.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 18\. dialogue prompt: “Who crawls through someone’s window at 4am to go for ice cream?” — mutual pining best friends, ofc  
> (c. 2016)

Somewhere in between her dream that she’s only barely aware of, she hears the thud. Jolting awake, her senses immediately go on high alert, hand reaching for her nightstand in case this situation warrants for a little self defense.

Well, a lot of self defense if the pistol in the drawer is anything to go by. But, it’s a good tool for scaring people off especially when so many people underestimate how good of a left hook she has.

She hears a few footsteps, another thud and then a curse. She immediately deflates from her tense position with her legs halfway off the bed. Her hand drops and when he curses again, she rolls her eyes. A quick glance at the clock tells her that it’s 4am. It’s Saturday (well, Sunday morning, whatever) and she thought Killian would still be at his brother’s place in New York. It only takes her a second to rip off the blankets fully and pad her way out into the hallway.

It’s oddly cold in her apartment and she has to hug her arms and pull them close to her chest to keep from shivering. She finds the kitchen light open and wonders how satisfying it would be to scare him while his back is to her and his attention is clearly diverted by his perusal of her fridge.

She settles on clearing her throat loudly, because she isn’t _that_ cruel.

He jerks back and turns to her abruptly. He’s grinning hard a moment later and she maintains the unimpressed expression on her face despite the way her heart thunders in her chest. She hates these feelings. They attacked her out of nowhere a few months ago and now they’re, like, obsessed with her or something. It isn’t the wisest move to like your best friend.

“Swan,” he shuts the fridge and steps closer to her, “didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You’re supposed to be in New York.”

He hums, “Cut that trip short.” He turns back and goes for her freezer this time. “Do you happen to have any of that Rocky Road?”

“Ice cream? Really? It’s the middle of the night.”

“Technically, it’s early morning.”

“ _Technically_ ,” she huffs, mocking his accent to the best of her abilities. She slumps a bit where she’s standing, eyelids threatening to droop as the initial adrenaline slowly fades away. A shiver wracks down her spine and she’s upright again. “Why the fuck is it so cold?” she mumbles under her breath.

“Bloody hell,” Killian mutters and is out of the kitchen in a flash, returning a few seconds later. “Apologies, love, it seems it slipped my mind to fully the shut the window.”

“Wait, you came in through my window? You have a key, Jones.”

“I couldn’t find it,” he shrugs, still smiling at her. That explains all the noise at least.

“I thought you were a burglar.” She shakes her head in exasperation, “Who crawls through someone’s window at 4am to go for ice cream?”

Killian has the decency to look ashamed as he rubs the back of his neck. It’s cute, and she doesn’t want it to be cute. She wants to shove his chest in frustration like she used to do, without wanting to know how it would feel to run her fingers through the dark hair there. Feelings suck.

“I gather now that it wasn’t the best strategy. I really didn’t want to be a bother, I could leave if—”

“Jones, shut up.” The soft tone in her voice takes away the harshness of the words. It’s the way he’s shuffling in spot that makes her cut him off, the way he sounded so dejected just then. She brushes past him and opens the freezer to pull out her half full carton of Ben & Jerry’s and then hunts for two spoons from the drawer.

She walks over to her small dining table and dumps the things there before dropping into one of the seats. He follows her without instruction, sliding in next to her while she pops open the lid and uselessly hacks at the frozen Rocky Road.

She abandons the task when Killian huffs out a small laugh at her impatience. She turns to him then, “Why did you really leave Liam’s so early?” She asks because she knows there’s more to it — the man practically worships his elder brother, there’s no way he’d voluntarily pass up on the opportunity to hang around him.

He sighs, fixes his eyes on the spoon he’s holding. “Didn’t want to stay.” She waits for him to continue, knowing he will if the way he’s furrowing his brows is any indication. It takes a few moments and then, “It got overwhelming, his wife and his newborn and the life he’s made for himself there. I love him, Swan, I do, and that’s why it’s pissing me off that I feel jealous. And then he started talking to me about moving to New York to be closer to him and I—,” he shakes his head with yet another sigh. “He told me he thinks I’d be happier there. I couldn’t handle it so I left and this was the first place I thought of. Probably because I know you have an endless supply of this stuff,” he nods to the carton.

Emma’s stomach drops despite his attempt at humour and she tries really hard to not let it show. She swallows. “Would you?” It sounds so unsure when she says it, so fucking _small_. “Be happier there, I mean.”

She doesn’t want to know the answer, not really.

He looks at her with a furrow in his brow as if he can’t quite understand the words that have left her mouth. “Of course I wouldn’t. How could I when you’re here?”

She gapes at him, unable to register his meaning. (Unable to hope for it to mean what she wants it to mean.) “What?”

“You make me happy, love,” he fidgets with his spoon again and dips it into the softened dessert before popping it into his mouth. She watches him closely for a few beats and when he doesn’t look at her, she places her hand on his free one resting on the tabletop.

“You make me happy, too,” she says softly. “You can do whatever you want but Boston would suck if you left.”

A small smile graces his face and he turns his hand around to twine his fingers with hers. “I know it would,” he teases, thumb rubbing at the side of her hand. She’s never usually this quick to show affection, and she blames the late hour and his easy confession for that. She also blames his stupid blue eyes and the way he cants his head to the side as his dimples flash at her.

“Shut up,” she reiterates from before, rolling her eyes for good measure despite the way she’s grinning. She picks up the spoon and digs into the carton, shoving his shoulder with her own when he attempts to steal the scoop out of her spoon with his own.

He manages the feat and smirks around the ice cream in his mouth. And with his hand holding fast onto hers, she’s stuck wondering how the ice cream would taste off of his lips. She diverts those thoughts by pushing a spoonful of Rocky Road into her mouth. He isn’t leaving; she has him and for that she’s grateful, but she doesn’t _have_ him and that, well, feelings just _really_ suck.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 19\. dialogue prompt: "It's not nearly as bad as it looks, darling." + oops I hit you with my car  
> (c. 2017)

If Emma was betting on how her night was going to go, she definitely wouldn’t have put all her money on “hitting her neighbour with her car and having to drive him to the hospital.” And yet, here she was, pacing the corridor outside his room, and debating whether or not she should go in.

Technically, she hadn’t even had to stick around this long, he sure as hell probably hadn’t expected her to. And if she was being honest, she hadn’t expected it either.

But there’s only a handful of things she knows about her next door neighbour, Killian Jones. Inclusive of: he’s British, he mostly keeps to himself, he likes playing guitar in the mornings, he is good at cooking if the pleasant scents that waft into the hallway are to believed, and he’s alone. And if Emma were to make a guess, she’d say he’s lonely, too.

She’d turned that thought over and over in her head when she’d admitted him, after she’d made it absolutely clear that she was taking him to get medical attention and that there was nothing he could do about it. He’d clutched his side and settled in quietly into the passenger seat, only periodically releasing a few groans when her Bug hit a few bumps on the road.

Emma knew the feeling; the one that made it hard to breathe sometimes if you thought about it too much. She’d been that girl not too long ago, the one without anyone to rely on, without a friend to call in the middle of the night if she needed to, without a friend to call, period, in fact.

She isn’t that girl anymore, through some freak miracle. And she isn’t exactly one of those people who makes it a habit to pick up homeless people off the street and give them shelter, or whatever. But she’d felt an odd draw towards Killian since she’d figured out the kind of person he was. She’d just never done anything about it.

Emma isn’t exactly neighbourly, either.

She hears him cough from inside the room, and she makes up her mind. Pushing the door open, she tries to put on her best “I’m sorry I ran into you with my Bug” smile, but she has her suspicions it falls short.

When Killian sees her, he has a hard time wiping off the confusion from his face.

“Hey,” she says.

“You didn’t have to stick around, Swan,” he replies. “I’m sure you’ve better places to be.”

Emma shakes her head even though he isn’t looking at her. She hovers awkwardly next to his bed, and shoves her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket. “I wanted to see how you were.” In the harsh light of the hospital room, she can see the little scratches on the side of his face where he must have hit the road. And she can clearly make out how hard he’s trying not to wince as he breathes. “I’m sorry about this, again.”

“It’s not nearly as bad as it looks, darling,” he waves her off, voice reassuring. The pet name throws her for a second, but she recovers quickly.

“Honestly, it looks pretty bad,” she blurts out before she can think it over. She regrets it almost immediately. Elsa always tells her she should work on her brashness.

But Killian laughs, a soft chuckle that quickly turns into a groan. “Yeah, perhaps. But I’ll live.”

“Do you— uh **—** want me to call anyone for you?” she asks lamely, rocking on the balls of her feet.

He looks anywhere but at her, and a humourless smile stretches across his face. “I’ve no one to call.” Well, guess she was right about that.

“Do you play Scrabble?”

Killian furrows his brows and turns to her. “Because I’m English?”

Emma huffs out a laugh. “No, because I have the app. And it’s a good way to kill time.” She doesn’t wait for him to answer, only pulls a chair closer to his bed and takes out her phone. “My son downloaded it for me so we could play together online while he’s at camp.”

“Ah, yes. Henry, was it?”

“You’ve met him?” she asks with narrowed eyes.

“Once or twice.” He shrugs. “He doesn’t understand that he isn’t allowed to speak to strangers, does he?”

She smiles fondly. “He’s friendly. But he’s good at reading people, he knows who to trust.” He watches her closely as she says it, and Emma hasn’t heard her kid talk about Killian at all other than the one time he insisted they invite him over for dinner. She’d shot the idea down and he hadn’t brought it up again. Still, she’d noticed him more and more after that discussion. “Anyway,” she says, “do you want to go first or should I?”

“You do the honours, love,” he replies after a beat.

They pass the phone back and forth, talking about anything and everything in between, until he can barely keep his eyes open. She tells him to sleep, and after he thanks her and wishes her a good night, she tells him she’ll see him tomorrow. And she finds herself not only meaning it, but anticipating it with a sort of childlike excitement. And by his soft smile, she thinks he might not be too averse to the idea, either.

The night he's released from the hospital, she invites him to dinner. And several dinners later, when it becomes completely normal to look over at her couch and see Henry and Killian bent over their Scrabble board, a fury of conversation being exchanged between them, she'll be overcome with the stupid thought that she definitely should have hit him with her car sooner.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20\. dialogue prompt: "Kiss me, quick!"  
> (c. 2016)

Killian wraps an arm around Emma’s shoulders as they stroll through the fair. This isn’t his favourite event in their little town, hasn’t been since he was fifteen and Mayor Mills had started the whole ordeal. He especially came to loathe it when he was seventeen and his then-girlfriend Ariel had dumped him right next to Ingrid’s ice cream stall. He supposes that at least she was considerate enough to break up with him within spitting distance of his favourite comfort food.

The whole thing was some sort of colourful nightmare. He had been more than glad to head to Seattle for his degree, not only for the experience but also so that he wasn’t dragged to this thing on a yearly basis.

But coming back to Storybrooke means facing this hell again. Especially because Emma is so fond of it all, from the bright balloons all the way down to the claw machine games. And he agreed to it because he is fond of Emma. Well, more than _just_ fond but that’s another discussion.

“You hungry?” he asks, scrunching his nose up at the cotton candy stalls.

“Not really,” she says, “plus I wouldn’t want to force these, what did you call them? ‘Diabetic mush on sticks’? Yeah, wouldn’t want to force them down your throat.” She’s biting her bottom lip to hold back her laughter.

“Excuse me for not wanting to subject my digestive system to this so-called food,” he huffs but he’s smiling too. He’s always smiling around Emma. It’s a wonder he survived four years with only seeing her every few months rather than the daily basis he’d gotten used to.

It’s strange to him that his feelings have only grown over the last few years, hitting him in full force the minute he’d seen her at Logan International, grinning wide when she came to pick him up.

“And you, Deputy,” he squeezes her shoulder and she scoffs a little at the new title she’s probably still getting used to, “need to start reevaluating your food habits if you want to keep in shape.”

“Ugh, Seattle made you bossier. Don’t make me arrest you.”

“Under what grounds, love? I agree that in some states being this devilishly handsome may be considered a crime, but—”

Emma cuts him off with a shove to his chest and a laughed out, “Shut up.” Her dimples flash at him and he feels warmer in his chest, thinking about how he gets to see this everyday again.

He’s never told her about his infatuation with her, because it would only scare her and cause a barrier between them. He knows this because it took him months on end to even gain her trust as a friend. But more importantly, it's because he knows _her_.

“It’s so weird to see everyone back,” she says suddenly. He follows her line of gaze to a group of their high school friends; Ruby, Tink, Belle, Jefferson and Victor among them.

He hums, “Good weird or bad weird?”

She shrugs, stuffing her hands in her jean pockets, “I don’t know, just weird.” He gets what she means, he didn’t realise just about all the people they knew in high school would come back to town, even if it is for a year or two. After all the talk at graduation about bigger and better things, he only did expect to see a few people in Storybrooke again.

“Obviously I’m the exception here, right?” Killian says lightly, bumping her shoulder with his own.

“I don’t want to answer that because of that massive ego that you’ve already— fuck.” Killian furrows his brows and turns to her at her abrupt curse. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Emma, love, what’s wrong?”

Instead of replying she turns her body towards him and locks her gaze with his. “Kiss me, quick,” she says in a hissed whisper.

“What—”

But before he can even form another thought, she’s pulled him down by the collar of his henley and pressed her lips to his. He makes a sound of surprise that cuts off as he registers what’s happening, and then his body just immediately melts into hers.

He’s thought about kissing Emma for years, thinks he should have done it at Ruby’s graduation party, should have done it when he saw her that first summer when he was sitting on her couch and they were swapping college stories. He’s thought about it but never had the guts to do anything about it.

And now—

Emma’s hand just barely grazes the hair at the nape of his neck before she’s pulling back. His hands stay on her waist for a moment before he opens his eyes and she retreats from him, stepping out of his space.

“Emma?”

“God, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, I just saw Neal and panicked and _fuck_.” She’s still backing away from him, her eyes filled with fear and regret and it shouldn’t hurt him this much but it does. But he buries it all down and tries to focus on anything but her taste on his lips.

He gently grabs her upper arms, trying to calm her down even though his own heart is beating a frantic rhythm because she _kissed_ him. But he knows her history with Neal, and that she still harbors some pain from their rocky past. “Swan, hey, look at me,” he soothes and continues when she does, “is he gone?”

Emma’s eyes are still blown wide as she darts them to the space behind him, and then, “He’s looking here.”

Killian turns around fast enough to catch the man stumble backwards a little and then retreat into the crowd. With his palms still on her arms, he feels Emma release a bit of tension but her body tenses once again when he looks back at her.

“I should go,” she mutters, “I’m pretty beat.”

He spots the lie easily, of course he does. This is _exactly_ what he was afraid of, exactly why he had hidden his feelings. He’d been so Goddamn careful and yet, here we is, standing alone in the middle of the whole bloody town, the only person he wants to be with jogging away from him. He’ll give her some time, he thinks, they always manage to find their way back to each other, after all. He touches his fingertips to the corner of his mouth almost unconsciously, wondering if he’s capable of giving her that time especially now that he knows how she kisses. 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 21\. dialogue prompt: "I didn't realize I needed your permission." — a lil established relationship ef au  
> (c. 2017)

The fact is, the war is coming. Emma knew it well beforehand, which meant she had had enough time to make up her mind about it. Her father is set to lead the knights, and she knows that their best decision is for her to lead the wielders of magic.

She’s been in battles before, she’s never been the kind of princess to watch from the sidelines while the things and people she loves are in danger. But she’s never been part of a war, and never against the Dark One and all the allies he’s managed to gather.

When she tells her parents, it’s more of a decision than to ask for their permission. She’s the daughter of Snow White, they’ve learnt to anticipate her stubbornness.

When she tells Killian, though, well, maybe she should learn by now to anticipate _his_ stubbornness.

“You’re going to what?” He’s still half grinning from the kiss she’d given him when he’d climbed through her bedroom window. He could use the door, like a sane person, but he always tells her he likes scaling up the castle wall to her window; he likes remembering their beginnings.

“I’m going to go to war,” she repeats, sitting down at the foot of her bed.

Killian furrows his brows. “To the war against the Dark One? Why would you do that?”

“What does that supposed to mean? I’m the Princess of Misthaven, it’s my duty to fight for my people.” She stands back up, tries her hardest to keep her frustration from taking over. Elsa once called her _prickly_ , and she’s been all too conscious of her trait since then.

“Love, I am very well aware. But there’s no reason to put yourself in the direct line of fire when you know the bloody crocodile is aiming to get to you.” There’s a sneer in his voice that Emma associates with Captain Hook, the moniker, not the man in front of her. She imagines this is how he spent his years commanding crews and making a name for himself across the high seas. Back before he fell in love with her and made port at Misthaven to stay, for her.

“It’s my decision what I do,” she steels her voice, raises her chin like she’s been taught to do in the face of adversity. She knows her voice is getting louder, and no doubt he’ll raise his to counter it.

“And you didn’t think it wise to discuss it with me at least once?”

“I didn’t realize I needed your permission.”

“Bloody hell, love, of course you don’t, I just–”

“You just _what_?”

“I just _worry_ , alright?” He looks tired now, and he must feel it, too, by the way he runs a hand over his face. “I worry for you.”

“I can take care of myself, Killian,” she spits out. She’s so tired of people not thinking her capable; she’s spent years training her magic and studying politics so her people and rulers of other kingdoms would accept her when she becomes queen. She should’ve known it was just a matter of time before Killian started doubting her too.

When he reaches for her, she recoils. Killian’s face falls and Emma instantly feels a pang in her chest. She should be done running from him, and yet here she is.

Killian runs a hand through his hair, and suddenly she wishes for their screaming voices instead of the quiet that surrounds her bedchamber.

He doesn’t look at her when he speaks next — he keeps his eyes on his hook, hand fiddling with the brace. “The Dark One took everything I ever cared about, and then some. I couldn’t take it if he took you, too.”

By their own accord, her fingers find his cheek, nudging his head up to look at her. She finds a tortured memory in his eyes that dims only slightly when he leans against her warmth. Emma’s anger and annoyance dissipates into the cold air as she watches Killian run his eyes over her face.

“He isn’t getting this kingdom, and he definitely isn’t getting to me,” she says softly, yet with a fierceness that she knows only those who grew up in courts are capable of balancing.

“He plays dirty, Emma. He isn’t noble and good like you. If you stay out of his way, at least—”

“I’ll only blame myself for not getting involved. I have to do this. I have to fight for what’s right.”

Killian squeezes his eyes shut for what feels like an eternity and then finally covers her hand with his own. In the flicker of candlelight, the shadows cast on his face make him look as though the worlds are weighing down on him.

He sighs heavily and finally looks at her, blue eyes resigned. “I can’t stop you, you know this. But at least let me be by your side. Lead your army from my ship, it’ll be a good vantage point,” he says. “If anyone can take down that vile beast, it’s you.”

Emma nods slowly, and brings her forehead against his. “We’ll bring him down together,” she corrects him, reminding him of how good of a team they make, and kisses him for good measure.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 22\. dialogue prompt: "I think I picked up your coffee by mistake."  
> (c. 2017)

There are days that are good to Emma Swan, and then there are the normal days. She’s not exactly pessimistic, she just knows when she’s being dealt a shit hand. Which is often. If her bad days go on till the middle of the week, she knows she’s in for a whole week of disasters.

But then again, all of that is normal for her.

She’s been in some version or another of this ever since she was born and dropped straight into foster care. It doesn’t bother her much anymore.

Today, she knows from the moment she wakes up, is not going to be a good day. Her phone battery dying in the middle of the night means her alarm didn’t go off, which means that by the time she’s pulling her clothes on, she’s already late for work. Sure, David will probably cover for her until she gets to school, but it’s an immediate right hook to her mood. At least she manages to get her phone up to 10% by the time she’s heading out the door.

She texts David with her request, because she knows she needs to stop for coffee or the rest of her day is going to be even worse. She cannot handle a day of Literature classes with teenagers without sustenance.

By some small miracle, the line at the coffee shop isn’t too long and she manages to place her order and pay all in under ten minutes. She spends the time waiting for her drink by drumming her fingers on the countertop and scrolling mindlessly through her emails.

When the barista yells out an order, she picks up the drink with a grateful nod to him and pushes through the people in the shop and shoulders the door open. She’s halfway to her car when she puts the coffee to her lips and tastes a bitter liquid instead of the hazelnut infused semi-bitter one she’s so fond of. Seriously, how could they mess up her order _that_ bad?

She groans to herself, and debates going back and demanding the right drink. She’s already late, maybe she can at least get a good thing out of it. Emma’s still fighting with herself over it when she hears a loud, “Excuse me, lass!” from behind her.

She turns around to see a dark haired man striding over, the blue of his eyes striking her immediately when he stops in front of her.

“I think I picked up your coffee by mistake,” he tells her, and holds out the styrofoam cup in his hand between them.

Emma furrows her brows, and then squints at the writing on her cup. It says _KJ_. Well, not her cup then. She shakes her head subtly, and looks back at the guy who has a small smile on his face, his stubble doing little to hide the large dimples in his cheeks.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, handing him his cup. “I’m a little out of it this morning. Thanks.” She sips on her hazelnut latte and sighs at the familiar warmth.

“Don’t mention it, love,” he smiles.

She narrows her eyes at him. “I’m not your love, buddy.”

He chuckles, not phased at all by her tone. “And I am not your buddy.” It’s his hand that hovers in the space between them this time. “Killian,” he introduces himself.

“I—,” she starts, but is cut off by the incessant ringing of her phone. “Shit, I’m late. I have to go, thanks for getting me my coffee,” she yells before she practically throws herself into her Bug and drives in no way that anyone out of a _Need For Speed_ movie should drive.

She thinks about the blue eyed stranger with a British accent for her whole day, and tells herself that it was too good to be true. Running into a guy at a coffee shop is a romantic comedy meet cute — it’s not an Emma Swan life event.

When she wakes up the next morning, only snoozing her alarm twice, she’s resigned herself to another day much like the previous one. It’s Wednesday, which makes this a sure fire shit week. She’s almost ready for her to trip over someone and cause a domino fall of people while she’s waiting to place her order, but instead she reaches the front of the line unscathed and asks for her usual.

“It’s already been paid for,” the young girl behind the counter tells her. “He asked me to give you this.”

It’s a slip with a number on it, and below it signed, _Enjoy your coffee —Killian Jones._ She’s assaulted by the memory of his blue eyes as she dazedly walks over to wait for her drink. Maybe this would turn out to be a good week after all.

(She doesn’t use the number, not until weeks later. Not until he’s somehow managed to pay for most of her drinks without her knowing how. Not until after she runs into him at the coffee shop in the middle of the day on her day off as she’s correcting papers and he spends his afternoon seated next to her, flirting shamelessly and offering up pieces of himself. Not until she gets home that night, and calls him to ask him out, insisting she pay him back for the coffee, in some way or the other.)


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 23\. dialogue prompt: "I can't explain right now but I really need you to trust me."  
> (c. 2017)

Emma knows how to compartmentalize. She keeps her work life separate and her personal life separate, knowing never to let the two even begin to touch. It’s the only way to go when you’re working as a spy for a secret organisation.

She keeps late night missions in one place. She keeps her grocery list in another. She keeps her extensive knowledge of hand to hand combat in one place. And Killian Jones, neighbour, and the only friend she may have ever had, in another.

She’d moved into the small seaside town when her job in Austria was over, opting to take some time off from work while still helping with researching for them. Technically, it was desk duty. And technically, she hadn’t “opted” for it more than it had been “forced” upon her by Ingrid when she got shot during her last job. It wasn’t _that_ fatal, and Pan got away, which meant that she was sent to Nowhere, Maine, for her safety after her identity was compromised.

Meaning, she has to work extra hard to track him from her unrecognizable corner of the world.

She hates it, not being on her feet and in the middle of some fight or the other. It’s all she knows. But some part of her likes the quiet that comes with sitting by the ocean, the ease with which she tells the handful of people she talks to her real name, the odd comfort when Killian falls asleep on her sofa after a long day of work.

Killian Jones hadn’t been a part of her plan. Not at all. Her aim was to stay underground for a few months, nothing more than a year, and then get back out there. Now though, every time she thinks of leaving, she thinks of leaving him. Which basically means she tries as hard as possible to not think about leaving even though she knows it’s inevitable.

“The pizza should be here soon,” Killian announces as he comes out of his room, sweatpants hanging low and threadbare shirt stretching across his chest. She tells herself she doesn’t stare, but she’s a trained bullshitter, so, whatever. Sue her.

“Great,” she replies, attempting to focus her attention back on Netflix.

Killian sits down next to her, his body pressing against hers from hip to knee. She doesn’t know how this man weaseled his way into her life, but now she can’t imagine anything else. He takes the remote from her hand to stop her mindless scrolling just as there’s a knock on the door.

She gets up before he can, and grabs the cash off the table before opening the door. She’s already paid and has the pizza in her hand when she hears the heavy shuffle of boots at the end of the hallway, where her apartment is. Discretely, Emma peeks her head out and immediately feels her heart speed up at the sight of two burly guys she’s pretty sure work for Pan.

They found her. Fuck.

She manages to move back in hastily, but without causing attention to herself. She hears them banging at her door, and she knows any minute now they’ll break through it and realize she isn’t inside. Emma doesn’t have much of a choice at this point.

“What’s wrong, love?” Killian asks, twisting to watch her with a concerned look.

“I– I need to go.”

“Come again?”

“I need to get out of here, I–” She drops the box on the kitchen counter and makes a beeline for the fire escape. Killian’s up and catching her elbow before she can reach for the window.

“Swan, what the bloody hell has gotten into you?”

“I’m sorry, I need to go. If people come by here looking for me, tell them you don’t know who I am, I can’t have you involved in this. I can’t explain right now, but I really need you to trust me.” She gets it out hurriedly, and feels her voice shake more with every word.

“Emma, if you’re in some kind of trouble, I can–”

“You can’t do anything, just trust me, okay?”

Killian nods even though he looks like he wants nothing more than to argue. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t know when I’ll see you again, but–” she breathes in heavily and does what she’s been stopping herself from doing for months and surges forward to kiss him. He melts into her immediately and gives as good as he gets. She wishes so hard that it didn’t feel like a goodbye but it does. She breaks away and breathes hard.

There’s a loud shout from one of the men outside, no doubt in frustration and she knows her time is running out.

“Go,” Killian tells her, letting her go. “And Swan, please be safe.”

She nods and is halfway out the window when she says with a weak smile and a determined set to her brows, “I’ll find you, Killian, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that, love.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: this verse has now been expanded into a three-chapter story and can be read [over here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28083792/chapters/68806740)!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 24\. dialogue prompt: "Why the hell are you bleeding?"  
> (c. 2016)

She and Killian have a routine, one she didn’t even know she was entering into when it really began. But one thing led to another and Friday nights became movie nights at her place, the two of them leaning against each other on her secondhand sofa and swapping work stories while stealing popcorn from the others' pile. They always pick a movie they don’t have to pay too much attention to, because they just know that they’ll spend all of it talking to each other anyway.

She hasn’t had too many assurances in her life, hasn’t had anything she’s ever been sure of. But the fact that Killian would knock on her door (despite having a key) at 8pm every Friday and undoubtedly fall asleep on her couch by the end of the night was something she’d come to have complete faith in. Or maybe it’s just Killian in general.

So, when her phone reads 9:24pm and the popcorn goes cold and he still isn’t answering her calls, she starts to get worried. She’s halfway to her bedroom to shove her arms through her leather jacket and go out to look for him herself when she hears the faint knock. How she can tell it’s him, she doesn’t want to think about.

(She knows it’s because she’s practically been head over heels about him since the last year of college, knows that having him around constantly has only made the dumb crush on him grow more and more.)

(But, she doesn’t want to think about that, either.)

She pulls open the front door a little too forcibly, revealing a tired looking Killian leaning against the side wall.

“Sorry I’m late, Swan, traffic was a bloody joke,” he pushes himself off the wall to walk into her apartment, and she stalks in after him.

“Where the hell were you, I’ve been calling you for an hour, if you were going to bail on me you could have at least texted and—,” she cuts herself off once he turns around to face her and then she sees shades of red over his hand, “why the hell are you bleeding!?”

He attempts to laugh but he must read the seriousness of her expression because he merely winces. “You should see the other guy?” It’s said with so much unsurity that she’d laugh he weren’t dripping blood over her hardwood floor.

“I can’t believe you got into a fucking fistfight.” It’s only then that she notices the purpling bruise on his cheekbone, and an even smaller cut right below his left eye. She grabs his upper arm and drags him to her bathroom, grumbling about how he’s not a teenager anymore, and he can’t exactly afford to get himself beaten up with his shitty paying job that doesn’t even do healthcare.

She only stops lecturing him when she’s rubbing the antiseptic across his knuckles with a piece of cotton, gingerly kneeling on the bathroom tiles as he sits on the edge of the bathtub.

When it stays quiet for too long, he murmurs, “At least he didn’t catch me with his knife.”

She halts her movements then and jolts her head up to take in his expression, hoping against hope that he’s joking. But she detects no lie or hint of teasing in his tone and her stomach just _drops_. “Killian,” she says softly, not really sure what she should follow it up with. She’s glad that he’s okay, more than glad actually, but she knows the bigger part of her is simply being selfish. She doesn’t know what she’d do without him.

“It was a man at the bar, Swan, drunk off his arse and ready to pound any man into the table. I took him outside because I couldn’t have him ruining Robin’s pristine mahogany, now could I? I did get in a few good ones myself, though, mind you.”

Her heart squeezes in her chest at its own accord. She can’t exactly handle seeing the man she’s in practically in love with so beaten up like this. “You and your stupid good form is going to get you killed one day,” she says instead, priding herself in how even her voice comes out.

“What is that your brother always says? “If you go down, go down swinging”?”

“You can’t honestly blame David for this.”

“I can blame Dave for everything, love, do you want me to demonstrate?”

She goes back to wiping the dried up blood off his cheek, trying her best to get her hammering heart to just simmer the fuck down for two seconds. “I think you’ve done quite enough for one night, don’t you think?”

He hums distractedly.

“There,” she says, after a long stretch of silence, placing a butterfly bandage on his cheek, “try not to do something so stupid next time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Although, I do look rather roguish this way, don’t I? Perhaps a few more punches will make me more desirable to the opposite sex,” he says as he examines his face in the mirror. He turns to her and raises an eyebrow, “What say, Swan? Does this make you fancy me?”

She rolls her eyes despite the fluttering in her stomach, “You wish.”

He grins at her before she walks out of the bathroom, following her all the way to the couch and then snuggling up next to her, his arms automatically wrapping around her waist. “What would I do without you?”

“Die, probably.”

“Probably,” he murmurs into the space between her shoulder and neck. “I apologise for worrying you.”

She sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair as she so often does, “Just don’t ever do it again.”

He nestles further into her, and she’s reminded of how easily she could lose him - one of the only rock solid foundations in her life. And she thinks that she could tell him now, that she can’t think of a world without him in it, can’t think of her life without movie nights and waking up to him humming a soft melody in her ear. But, he’s her best friend and she can’t ruin that, and the moment passes just like that. At least he’s still here, though, she reasons as he drifts away to sleep, his body getting heavier as he leans fully against her. Because it might be him that had voiced the question but it’s her that feels it straight down to her bones; _what would she do without him?_


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 25\. dialogue prompt: "It's only one night, we'll just share the bed."  
> (c. 2016)

At the time, it seemed like a plausible idea. He blames his sleep deprivation on the fact that he didn’t stop to consider the damage this would cause in retrospect. Because right now, with Emma only few inches away from him, sharing the same duvet, it’s a little difficult to keep his feelings in check.

They’d driven up together from Boston to a small town in Maine called Storybrooke where their office had decided would be an interesting location for team building. Emma had called it a reimagining of Survivor, trap a few tens of people in a small town with bad cell reception and no WiFi where they’re forced to rely on small talk from diner patrons to pass the time. Of course, they had activities planned but all of it seemed so forced that they couldn’t help but make fun of it.

He hated his job without a single doubt. But the only reason he hadn’t quit yet was because of Emma. He’d never say it out loud to her (or to anyone else) but that was the whole truth of it. Perhaps it was kind of childish to hold on to a 9 to 5 simply because of her presence, but he was shy in matters of the heart despite his arrogant facade, never really having recovered from his bad string of breakups a few years ago.

So, they’d driven up together because it was easier to split money on gas and easier still to share a car with someone who shared your music taste. What wasn’t easy was finding the town that didn’t seem to be on any of the maps, and only showed up on Emma’s phone’s GPS, which is why it was the middle of the night by the time they'd reached the small BnB the company had rented out for them.

Everyone was asleep and it had turned out that the roommate he had been assigned slept like the dead, if the five missed calls Killian left on his phone were anything to go by.

He’d opted to go sleep in the car when Emma had grabbed his duffel from the floor and hauled it to her room. Her room with the double bed. “It’s only one night,” she’d said after a few minutes of silence and his decision to sleep on the carpeted floor, “we’ll just share the bed.”

And now he's here. Sharing the bed.

Emma shifts a little and the sheets rustle loudly in the quiet of the room. The only light comes from outside the window in a mixture of the moonlight and the streetlamps, but it’s enough that in his hyper awake state, he can use it to analyse the room around him.

“Killian?”

“Hm?”

She turns over to face him, and he tilts his head to regard her, “I can’t sleep.”

Her eyelashes flutter across her cheeks and he can tell she’s tired — she did drive halfway, after all. “Me neither, Swan.”

Emma sighs and it’s only then that he realises how softly they’re speaking, as though they’re both loathe to disturb the quiet of the whole town.

“Would you like me to tell you a bedtime story?” he teases, moving to lie on his side so he’s face to face with her.

She smirks a little, enough that a dimple flashes on her left cheek. “Sure.”

They’re close friends, he supposes, as close as two people who’ve decided to rely upon one another on a day to day basis for the sake of their sanity can be. They’ve shared a few bits of their pasts with each other but nothing substantial. Still, to Killian, it’s a big deal.

He tells her a story about how him and his brother snuck out of their house when he was merely six years old so they could sit at the docks and watch the ships come in at dawn. Emma falls asleep soon enough in between teasing him and her soft huffs of laughter. She looks younger, less guarded, and he can’t help but admire her even more then.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep but he when he wakes up at an early hour, it’s to Emma’s head on his chest, their legs tangled under the sheets. His arm is wrapped around her waist, fingers barely an inch away from her exposed skin.

He revels in the feeling for a few moments before he pries himself away as gently as he can, trying his best not to rouse her. She would panic, most definitely, if she woke up to them with their limbs entwined, and he’d rather preserve this memory like this rather than that and the awkwardness that would follow.

He grabs his things after he changes and slips out of the room, his heart stuttering when he turns around to see she’s moved to wrap her arms around his pillow. Maybe one day he’ll be able to wake up to her pressed against him and not sneak out, to kiss her until she rises, but today is not that day. He doesn’t know if either of them are ready for that just yet.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 26\. dialogue prompt: “I love you. I’m completely and utterly in love with you. Please don’t get married.”  
> (c. 2016)

The last thing Killian Jones expects at 2 in the morning is a loud pounding on his front door that frightens him enough that he nearly falls off the couch he’s slumped in. He isn’t too mad, considering sleep has been a far-fetched dream in the last few weeks what with all the stress he’s feeling as the big day draws nearer.

Scratch that, the last thing Killian Jones had expected ever in his life was to get married. And now—

Well, it isn’t too far off considering he _did_ make that pact with Ruby when they were barely teenagers. He just never thought it would come to actually becoming a reality — fitted tuxedo, large reception, and all. Perhaps he thought that by the time he was 30, he’d be married and living in the suburbs with his wife and kids, not just about paying his bills while he went out for drinks with his friends on Friday nights. When Ruby had shown up in his life and reminded him of the pact on his birthday, it seemed like life was opening a door for him, even if it wasn’t precisely how he thought he’d be doing it.

He shuffles to the door as the pounding only gets louder, and he’d be mad, really, if he had the energy to do so.

Emma nearly falls into him as he opens the door, her fist stopping halfway in the air before colliding with his shoulder.

“Swan?” He has to knit his brows and ask, because maybe he’s imagining her there. It really would not have been the first time he’s dreamt of her. (But that’s another kind of discussion altogether; one that he’s not sure he should even be allowing into forefront of his mind if the wedding venue shortlist burning a hole in his phone’s memory is anything to go by.)

(He’d almost had Emma, once, but he’d fucked it up and there was no use revisiting that.)

“Killian,” he can tell she’s trying very hard to keep her voice levelled, to keep her back straight. She’s swaying on her feet though, the lass was never any good at holding her liquor. “I was just in the neighbourhood…”

He waits for a few moments to see if she’ll continue but when she only looks at him with her clouded gaze, he sighs. “You’re drunk, love, come inside. I’ll get you some water and you can lie down on the couch.”

He lightly grips her elbow and urges her inside before she can protest like he knows she will. Her excuses of _I don’t want to impose_ and _I’ll only be a burden_ are ones he’s heard time and time again, no matter how much he assures her of the opposite.

He lets her gulp down the water and burrow herself in his couch, taking advantage of her distraction to slip off her boots, leaving her in those socks he’d bought her — the ones with ducks on them.

“Now,” he says once he’s wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and seated himself next to her, “what are you really doing here?”

He doesn’t know if she’ll answer considering the inebriated state she’s in, but he can hope. (He can hope for a lot of things, but that doesn’t mean they’ll come true.)

“I told you I was around,” she shrugs.

“Don’t lie to me, Swan.”

She shrugs again, but this time doesn’t meet his eyes. “Did I wake you?” She asks instead, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. He likes her here, in his house — it’s been awhile since she’s sat on his couch let alone visited him at all.

He shakes his head, “I was very much awake.”

She nods once. The silence stretches between them and he resigns himself to the idea that she has no inclination to let him in. It isn’t what he wants but he has to accept it, has to accept that the distance between them has grown far greater than he could have ever imagined and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

(Has to accept that he almost had her — but it’s always _almost_ for them.)

“Don’t do it,” she blurts out, just as he thinks about reaching towards the TV remote to fill the room with useless noise. He freezes, wondering if she means his current action or something else entirely.

“Pardon?” He prompts, turning to face her. She’s got her knees tightly pressed against her chest, and her eyes flitting to everywhere except his face.

And then just when he thinks she’s not going to further elaborate, she exhales heavily. “Don’t get married.”

He stares at her, perhaps a little too hard, but you can’t blame him now that his brain has decided to stop processing. The only function of his that seems to be working is his eagerly thudding heart that would ram out his chest if it beat any harder. “What?”

“You shouldn’t do it, you deserve so much more. You deserve to love and be loved and not _this_ ,” it comes out rushed and all in one breath, as though she’s been rehearsing it.

“Swan, I’m 30, if love was in the cards for me, it would have happened by now.” His heart hurts a little as he says it, but he knows it to be true. Part of the reason he’d agreed to marry Ruby was because he’d convinced himself that he was undeserving of an affection as great as one he’d always dreamed of.

(An affection like he carries for Emma, but that—)

“I love you.”

She’s looking at him now, jaw clenched and expression pained. And gods above, he can’t _breathe._

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, he’s not quite sure what, but she cuts him off with a whisper, “I love you. I’m completely and utterly in love with you. Please don’t get married.”

(And he almost had her, but maybe she also almost had him and he’d never really thought of it that way and—)

It’s all he can really do to move forward and slide his palm along her cheek. She leans into his touch immediately, despite the addition of wrinkles that form on her forehead. Like she knows she shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But, gods, he loves her, too.

“Why didn’t you say something?” He manages to croak out.

“I just did, you idiot,” she half laughs, half sobs, like his heart wasn’t already cracking in multiple places.

“Emma,” he grinds out, because it hurts. He’s getting married and it’s not to her and it _hurts_.

“I know,” she shakes her head, “I know, I’m sorry.” She’s crying now, the tears leaving his palm wet and cold. So he does what he knows how to and pulls her into his embrace, hushing her as she presses her face into his t-shirt. “I’m sorry, Killian.”

“It’s okay, love,” he manages weakly, even though he doesn’t know if he quite believes it. He squeezes her tighter in his arms and she wraps her own around his torso in reply, not really needing any words to convey their feelings. He presses a kiss into her hair, “It’ll be okay.”

They’ll deal with this in the morning, he thinks, because right now all he wants to do is hold her in his arms, not really knowing if this is the last time he’ll be able to do just that.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 27\. dialogue prompt: "Don't panic but I think we may have accidentally gotten married..."

Emma is no stranger to tequila, or to Las Vegas. She’s been here many a times for a number of occasions, and Ruby’s bachelorette party simply adds to that list. There was a time where she’d walked ten blocks back to her hotel from one of the casinos, drunk off her ass, and still managed to get up in time before the breakfast buffet closed. The one thing she prides herself in doing is holding her liquor, and yet-

Yet, she finds herself groaning against her headache as she lifts herself up on her elbows, the wrinkled bedsheet falling from her waist.

She squints at the wall of her hotel room, not being able to remember much from the night before. She distinctly recalls going dancing with Ruby, Mary Margaret, Elsa and Belle. There were drinks, a live band, and she thinks there might have been strippers but she isn’t too certain. She looks down to find herself in her tank top and leather pants from the night before. At least she’s sure that she wasn’t the one stripping.

A clutter sounds from the bathroom and Emma freezes. It might be her headache playing tricks on her, but she still darts her eyes to her suitcase, knowing her firearm is in the top pouch. She slowly inches towards the end of the bed, but before she can slip out of it, she hears a voice.

“Bloody fuck.” A very English one.

And then she sees the owner of it, with his dark hair and navy blue shirt only halfway buttoned up, his hand tiredly scrubbing across his face. Definitely not some kind of murderer or robber, then. Those aren’t nearly as loud and, well, hungover as he seems.

And then she’s struck by the thought that she’d brought a man back to her room for the night only to not remember anything about him in the morning. Well, fuck.

She clears her throat, perching herself into a sitting position on the bed, and he looks up startled. His blue eyes seem oddly familiar but not enough that she can place him properly. “Did we…,” she starts cautiously, and then just ends up nodding towards the bed in insinuation.

He looks taken aback for a moment before he’s vehemently shaking his head, “No, we- definitely not.”

She sighs in relief. “Thank God,” she mumbles, “that would’ve sucked.” She isn’t sure if she’s talking about not remembering sleeping with him because of her manners, or because of how she’d loathe not to know how that experience went. Especially considering how handsome he is.

“Wouldn’t relax just yet, love,” he says, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

Emma eyes him with concern, “Care to explain, buddy?”

“Well,” he exhales, runs a hand through his hair, “don’t panic, but I think we might have accidentally gotten married.”

She furrows her brows and then shakes her head in denial. Because there’s no fucking way-

He cuts her off as if he can read her thoughts, “I awoke next to a folded up marriage certificate and four pictures on my phone, along with my mother’s ring on your finger.”

Her eyes find their way to her left hand, a beautiful silver ring marked with engravings and decorated with a red stone perfectly slipped into her ring finger.

When she looks back up at him, he’s scratching the back of his neck and looking to all the world like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

This, well, this she is definitely a stranger to.

-/-

“Killian Jones,” he introduces himself as they slip into the booth of a small diner just across her hotel.

She shakes his proffered hand, “Emma Swan.”

He scans the menu on the table as the waitress fills up their mugs with coffee and asks, “So, Swan, what brings you to Vegas? Besides the obvious intent of marrying me, of course.”

She rolls her eyes despite the situation. Emma’s not one for commitment, not even one for relationships if she’s being honest, and yet she isn’t freaking out about this as much as she thinks she would have. Maybe it’s the fact that it isn’t real, not exactly. Maybe it’s the ease with which Killian smiles at her. Maybe it’s because he seems to be on the same page as her about annulling it. “My friend’s bachelorette party.”

“Ah,” he supplies.

“What about you?”

“Filling in as a bassist for a friend’s band. Not something I usually do. Getting thoroughly sloshed and getting married to a stranger isn’t something I usually do, either, just to be clear.”

“Good to know,” she hides her smile with the rim of the mug.

After their food arrives, she sends a message on their group chat, letting her friends know she’s alive and still recovering, and that she might have accidentally gotten hitched, but she can definitely make it in time for lunch.

It’s supposed to be nonchalant but she knows it’ll be anything but. Her phone blowing up with notifications, buzzing against the tabletop incessantly, proves her right.

She groans around her grilled cheese.

“Everything alright?”

“I told my friends,” she says by way of explanation.

Killian hums in understanding. “I called my brother in the morning, he yelled at me quite a bit.”

Emma chuckles a little as Killian winces at the memory. She scans the messages briefly, her favourite being Ruby’s excited _THIS IS SO GREAT I’M NOT EVEN MAD THAT YOU STOLE MY THUNDER_ , with four flamenco dancers emojis. And then her next one (still in all caps) which says, _PLEASE TELL ME HE’S HOT._

She locks her phone and places it face down, making small talk with Killian about their jobs. She finds herself laughing so hard at his quick wit that she nearly chokes, not being able to remember when the last time she’d had such a pleasant conversation with a guy, who wasn’t David or August, was.

It scares her a little bit but she’s determined to not let their hasty marriage get to her. It’s nothing but a misunderstanding. Even if Killian’s flashing dimples sway her of that notion for a few seconds whenever he laughs.

-/-

Turns out that Killian lives only a half hour drive away from her in Boston, and because her flight is the next day, they exchange numbers and agree to get this thing processed as quickly as possible. Not that she has another man waiting for her, or anything. She wonders if maybe he has someone waiting for him. She chastises herself for letting that bother her, because it’s really none of her business.

She’s not going to make a big deal out of this, no matter how much her friends insist on doing just the opposite. But, really, what else could she expect of them? Especially since the last date she had was with Ruby’s colleague, Graham, over a year ago. Elsa reminds her of that, and Emma has to roll her eyes.

But, no, she isn’t planning on staying in contact with him even though Mary Margaret makes the best case that she can about how romantic that would be. She’s going to go back home and live her normal life and not meet, text, or think about Killian Jones. It should be an easy feat, really. Her friends do tell her constantly that avoidance is her best quality.

Easier said than done, though, when she can’t seem to get the picture Killian had shown her out of her mind. The rather shaky one of them kissing at the altar, an Elvis impersonator standing by them, grinning.

It’s only when she heads back to her hotel room that night to pack that she realises she still has his ring, gently zipped up in the inner pocket of her purse. She’d meant to give it to him at the diner but she’d completely forgotten.

And now-

She sighs, rolling the piece of jewellery between her thumb and forefinger.

Despite the dread of her plan falling to pieces in front of her, there’s a faint fluttering in her stomach at the thought of seeing him again. That, though, is something she’ll never admit to anyone. Not even herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps. happy new year! I am also on [tumblr](http://piratesails.tumblr.com/) where these prompts were born


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 28\. dialogue prompt: "I had a nightmare about you and just wanted to make sure you're okay."

The loud knock rouses him from where he’d drifted off on the couch, jolting him into an unwanted reality where he’s reminded of his half drafted thesis that he’s making hardly any progress on.

He pushes himself up, eyeing the papers and his laptop with annoyance. He’d wish for mind bending abilities to set them on fire by just staring at them, but that would mean he’d be left with even less than he already has.

The thudding against his door gets louder and he grumbles as he shuffles his sleep addled mind to the door before wrenching it open, a retort ready at his lips that dies the second he sees Emma standing there.

“Swan, it’s the middle of the night, is everything okay?” She’s standing in front of him in her pajamas and an old sweatshirt, her hands wringing together. With the expression on her face, he’s compelled to pull her into his arms and hold her there until, well, he’d say forever but perhaps friends aren’t meant to think things like that about each other. At least not the way he’s thinking of it.

“I—,” she starts but stops herself short, and instead runs her eyes over his face.

Killian reaches out to tug her sleeve, and uses his grip to pull her into his apartment, shutting the door behind her. “Emma?” he asks again, running a hand up and down her arm in a gesture he hopes is comforting. In the months he’s known her, ever since he moved into the apartment above her and ran into her when he’d let her into the building after she’d forgotten her access card, he’s never known her to show her emotions so openly on her face.

Sure, he’s seen them. But he’s one of her closest friends, and even then it’s a rare thing.

“You’re starting to worry me love,” he says after a few minutes.

“Sorry,” she shakes her head. “Sorry, God, you were asleep and I just— I should go.” She makes to turn around but he tighten his grip on her forearm. He leads her to his couch and waits until she’s slumped down to go and make her some tea.

It’s only when she’s wrapped her fingers around the steaming mug that he asks, “So, are you going to tell me why you’ve come to my door in the middle of the night, looking worried sick?”

She stares hard at the tea, as though asking it for answers. Killian watches her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks and wonders if a few months of friendship (and pining) gives him the permission to run his hands across the frown lines on her forehead until they disappear. He clasps his hands together before he can make a right fool of himself.

She exhales heavily and in a rush, mumbles out, “I had a nightmare about you and just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He doesn’t know what to say so he just says, “Emma.” It comes out more reverent than he would have allowed in his right state of mind.

“I could have just called. You were asleep and you’re working hard these days.” She shakes her head, and puts down the mug carefully on the coffee table.

“It’s okay, love. _I’m_ okay.”

She looks at him for the first time since her admission and she seems calmer, but only slightly. So he covers her hand with his own and squeezes. “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

He gives her a soft smile, and she replies with one of her own, the blue glow of the muted television outlining her profile and making her look surreal. “You’re welcome to— to perhaps stay, if it would make you feel better?” He doesn’t know if he says it for her or for himself, but he knows he’d rather have her around in any given circumstance.

She hesitates, and then gives him a nod, her eyes tired. He fetches her a blanket and wraps it around her shoulders as she pulls her knees up to her chest and makes herself comfortable on his couch.

He sits down beside her with his notebook, figuring he may as well get a little more work done now that he’s up. Killian sees, from the corner of his eye, that Emma is clearly fighting sleep. So he does what he can, and places a hand on her bent knee, rubbing soothing circles there.

“Just so you know I’m here,” he tells her in explanation.

It isn’t long before her hand finds his and she slides lower until her head is on his shoulder. He hides his surprise well. “Just so I know you’re here,” she mumbles into his shirt. And he’s glad that she can’t see him and the grin that stretches across his face, because he couldn’t erase it even if he tried.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 29\. dialogue prompt: “We’re in an abandoned lodge in the middle of nowhere. Sure, you’re totally right, nothing bad could ever happen here.” — a little fluffy established relationship bit to round off this compilation

“Killian, it’s fine, nothing bad is gonna happen.”

“We’re in an abandoned lodge in the middle of nowhere. Sure, you’re _totally_ right, nothing bad could _ever_ happen here,” he mumbles sarcastically, eyeing the dusty interior as he shakes his hair free of water.

“What, are you scared?” She has her back to him, but he doesn’t need to see her to know she’s smirking.

“All I’m saying is that in my experience—”

She snorts.

“—there is nothing good that can come of this situation.”

She wrings her hair out and faces him, eyes drifting to the window and the storm outside for a second before settling on him. They’d gone out for a walk in the evening and ended up running in search of shelter, getting their boots all muddy in an attempt not to slip into their imminent demise.

“You’re so dramatic,” she says, as though she can read his mind. She might as well be able to, he thinks, what with how well she knows him. “I have got to stop letting you watch horror movies with Henry.”

“Is it even advisable to let the lad watch such terrifying things at his age?” He mumbles, eyes trailing over her face as she stalks closer to him.

She shrugs a little, like she wants to shelf this discussion for later. Like she’d much rather slide her hand up his chest, flexing it a little over the collar of his sweater. “Think about it this way,” she says in barely a whisper, “at least we finally get some time alone.”

He isn’t one to argue with that logic. She’d brought him home with her for the holidays and in between her ever-looming presence of her parents, the herds of friends from her childhood and the grunts of disapproval from the owner of the diner when they so much as hold hands, getting close enough to simply touch Emma has been a difficult task indeed. So, he lets his hands fall to her hips, lets his body sway into hers.

It’s the sudden crack of thunder that has him jolting back, heart beating a rapid rhythm in his chest. He doesn’t realise he’s cemented himself against the wall behind him until Emma is prying him forward and wrapping her arms around his waist.

It takes him a few seconds to return her embrace, pressing his cheek to the top of her head.

“You really are scared, aren’t you?” It’s a mumble against the hollow of his neck, and the warm puff of air helps against the creeping chill in the air.

He wants to deny it, wants to remind her that over the three years they’ve known each other he’s exhibited more than one moment of bravery. His ego begs him to do just that, but he tightens his hold on her and sighs instead. They’ve only been dating for a year, but there are still parts of himself that he thinks are too weak, too undeserving of her affections.

“Is it the thunder?” She croons softly, giving him a little push.

He waits a beat then nods in reply.

“It’s okay,” she places a soft kiss on the underside of his jaw, “I’ll protect you.”

He chuckles, very accurately aware of just how strong she is. Killian pulls back just enough to kiss her soundly, the sound of the hard downpour doing little to sway him this time. “My saviour,” he murmurs, feeling her answering grin press up against his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it for now, folks! thankyou for reading <3  
> I am also on [tumblr](http://piratesails.tumblr.com/) where I thirst over fictional characters in the tags.


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